


eclipsed by the moon

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nerds in Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: AU in which Paul and John are among an elite collection of students that have been tasked with creating technology to aid a new world’s formation as earth begins to perish. Also, they’re on the moon.Written for the McLennon Big Bang 2020 and inspired by ihaveaheadacheuwu’s artwork.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 31
Kudos: 53





	eclipsed by the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a few quick notes, this is set in an alternative universe heavily inspired by retro-futurism and therefore we're dealing with a cool mix of old and new technology and an ambiguous year. Is it 1962? Is it 3012? We just don't know! It's truly a whole different universe so it's irrelevant what specific year it is, all that matters is nerdy John and nerdy Paul falling in love in space. Also, I've included links to songs at certain points in the fic. You have 0 obligation to actually listen to them, it's just a bit of fun. And finally, thank you to ihaveaheadacheuwu on tumblr for inspiring this fic with their artwork. I hope you, and all readers, enjoy the fic!

Despite everything, he still thinks about how when this is all over he could buy some farmland where the air isn’t so polluted, a little place of his own to build up from the ground. He finds himself just as enchanted by that blue marble in the sky as he was by the pale moon when he was a boy. There’s always something to reach up to, he finds. There’s always a promise of something better just within your reach with a little effort. He sits by his circular window, looking out to endless sky and stars and the ignited face of a planet he once called home. Maybe it still could be home. 

He thinks of his Dad, working himself to the bone day after day, slinking back home with heavy eyes as Paul quietly studied at the kitchen table. With a weary exhale, Paul turns back to his desk and continues with his work, pushing all thoughts of blue skies and rolling fields of sun-paled grass aside. 

It’s his twenty first birthday and the moon is a lonely place to celebrate such a milestone.   
  


**[Put On Your Sunday Clothes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jL6pGfS6aho&ab_channel=DisneyClips)  
  
**

“Before class begins, I’d like to introduce our young prodigy here, Paul McCartney. He has been moved up to level four on account of his ingenuity and hard work, and I trust that you all will make him feel comfortable as he settles in,” Professor Martin looks to Paul with a firm nod and gestures towards an empty space at a bench at the back of the classroom. The class itself is made up of sixteen other students, all busying themselves with setting up their equipment for today’s class. Paul slinks into the back quietly, unaffected by the lack of warm greetings. 

“John, you can sit next to Paul, help him along,” Martin’s voice cuts through the general murmur and Paul blinks up and finds a young man crossing over to his bench with an armful of supplies. He sets down his planter and the green stems sag over, making Paul wince.

“Careful with those,” he warns as he sets his own planter in front of him. He’s seen John around before, usually slouching over the back table at the dining hall or chatting up girls in the common room with an arm propped up on the wall. His face is usually carved into a mischievous look, an all knowing and superior demeanour designed to intimidate. 

“They’re durable,” John pokes at a limp leaf bud with his pointer finger, “Worked for centuries back home, didn’t it?”

Paul is too indignant to reply to that, choosing to focus his attention on Martin as he relates his instructions for today’s lesson. He scribbles down in his notepad dutifully, paying close attention to the slides being projected above Martin’s head and carefully mapping out his approach to the hypothetical problems with elaborate diagrams and equations drawn out neatly.    
“Easy there, mate,” John props up a small plastic ruler next to his tallest plantling, “You’re gonna sprain a wrist. Start a fire, even.”

Paul looks over, catching sight of the chaotic layout of notes on John’s notepad - the doodles in the margins. 

He gives a plastic smile, irritation prickling, “Yeah, ‘spose you could say I’m doing enough work for the two of us.” 

John grins, almond eyes giving Paul a slow once-over, “Subtle.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” he replies, imitating John’s look and shifting his attention back to his work. He hears the other boy snort and start to scribble something down.

“John, I trust that those cartoons are all part of the process,” Martin steps up to their bench, leaning over with hands in his pockets to inspect their findings. Martin is one of the most respected professors at the academy, credited with leading the team that designed all the seperate moon bases. He’s a tall, thin man with rimless glasses perched at the end of his nose, arms usually crossed over his chest as he patrols the classroom. 

“Oh yes, sir,” John salutes and leans over with folded arms over the smooth metal benchtop, “And I have the boy genius right here to hold me hand while I do so.”

Paul’s lips thin. 

“Hm,” Martin grunts and swipes John’s notepad to inspect, “Once again, John, your process is muddled.” 

Paul watches the interaction in his peripheral vision, pen scratching out a botched attempt at an answer.  _ PH levels are too high, not enough potassium to support the plant’s metabolism…  _ He taps his pen on the paper, frowning deeply. 

“But I got the right answer,” John protests, standing upright and thrusting an accusatory pointer finger to tap at the page.

“That is true,” Martin concedes and Paul’s head whips up in surprise.  _ How?! How did he get it so quickly? _

“So, why do ye need to pair me off with baby-face here?” he presses, turning to Paul and giving an exaggerated smile, “No offence, of course.”

“Some taken,” Paul retorts, turning back to his work with a blush rising up his neck.  _ Come on, figure it out, show them you’re good enough. _

“I’ve paired you with Paul because you could teach each other a great deal. Quite frankly, John, you make the unnecessary things harder than they are supposed to be, and the complicated issues simple.”

“I get there in the end, I’ve proven meself to-.”

“ _ Myself _ ,” Martin corrects sharply, “Don’t argue, John. You know how important this is. The lives at stake, the money-” 

“Oh yes, can’t forget about the money,” John mutters, exhaling and slumping over the bench.

“There are plenty of eager students back home, John,” Martin tosses the notepad back onto the bench, “Foaming at the mouth to take your place.”

_ Damn it! Wrong answer again... _

“How far can you get when you’re all thinking the same?” John muses, clearly frustrated.

“What’s important is that we get the  _ right  _ answer,” Martin steps over and peers at Paul’s notepad, “You’re close, Paul, but not quite there.”

“Funny,” John grumbles, “I have the  _ right  _ answer and they don’t.”

Paul grimances, scrawling in a mad rush of numbers and symbols and- 

“I think I’ve got it, Sir,” he purses his lips, flipping the pad over for Martin to inspect.

“Hm,” Martin adjusts the glasses over his nose, “Not quite there, but keep going.”

Paul’s heart drops, face burning as John snickers to himself. There’s nowhere to hide scarlet humiliation when they are surrounded by plain white walls.

“You do know I admire you, John,” Martin continues, “But I cannot encourage such disregard of standard procedure.”

Paul bows his head and listens to the icey silence, and eventually the sound of Martin’s footsteps clicking away from their desk. He strains not to glance at John for the rest of the lesson, but his presence burns in the corners of his mind.

-

The common room is a refuge from the more compact personal quarters and stifling existence within his own head. It’s about the size of a typical classroom, tables with card games and shelves of worn novels that are neatly arranged. There’s the usual hum of activity, people gathered around chatting casually. Paul meanders through various groups making idle conversation until someone catches his eye. John is sitting with his legs propped up on a table by the window, scribbling in his notebook. There’s a chess set on the table, Paul notes, and it sparks an idea.

“Fancy a game?” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, and John doesn’t flinch, simply raising his eyes to meet Paul’s with a slight curve of his lip.

“Better than playing with myself,” he intones, watching Paul take a seat across from him and waits a moment before removing his shoes from the table and sitting upright with his notebook cast aside.

“You must do quite a bit of that,” Paul replies, sitting his satchel down by his feet and arranging any fallen pieces into their proper place, “Seem to be quite a lonely fella over here.”

“I’m not the crowd pleaser you are, McCharmley,” John says, nudging his pieces to their designated spots with long lazy fingers, “And this isn’t my sort of crowd to please, anyway.”

“And who is this crowd you appeal to, then?” Paul ignores the strange pleasure he gets from John remembering his name at all.

“The madmen,” John smiles, baring teeth and a hint of irony.

Paul huffs, “Birds of a feather.”

“Exactly, son,” John taps his fingers over the table surface, “So what’s our wager here?”

“What?” 

“Make this game a little more interesting,” John reaches down to unzip his bag, rustling through his belongings for a moment before extracting a chocolate bar encased in silver wrapping and holding it up between them, “Behold, the bounty!”

“Impressive,” Paul concedes, mouth watering a little. 

“Alright, your turn, cough up something of equal or greater value,” John gestures to Paul’s bag, snapping his fingers.

“Don’t think I’ve got anything,” Paul mumbles, searching through his belongings. A couple of folders full of written notes, his ID, a standard protein bar and an empty water bottle.

“Fine, I’ll decide what I want later,” John waves his hand, Paul’s attention drifting back to the game at hand.

“You won’t have to,” Paul assures and rests his palms on either side of the board, “You start.”

John doesn’t bat an eye, simply reaching out and moving a piece forward. Paul mirrors the move, eyes flickering over the pieces as he maps out potential strategies. John pushes another piece forward, watching Paul’s eyes with some kind of intensity that isn’t strictly rooted in competition. 

“Have something to prove, Paulie?” John smirks.

“Have me all figured out, don’t you?” Paul knocks off one of John’s bishops with a light tap.

“Pants in a twist ‘cause you couldn’t show me up in front of Martin,” he pushes his queen forward, knocking over a threatening pawn as he slides to a halt, “Real mature.”

Paul’s jaw clenches, “And what about you? Beratin’ the fella over being subjected to sitting next to  _ baby face McCartney _ ?”

John chuckles, watching as Paul’s rook creeps closer to his knight, “Nothing personal, I just prefer to work alone. An’ Martin knows that, but he’s paired me up with you to make his own point about me. You were just collateral damage.”

“Charming,” Paul maneuvers his queen, crossing over to knock off one of John’s pawns. His competitor grins, hand flying in a quick dart to grab his remaining bishop to crash into Paul’s most important piece. 

“So I’ve been told.”

“Fuck,” Paul runs a nervous hand through his hair, John clearly pleased with himself as he sets the queen beside his collection of small trophies. 

“Don’t tear out your hair over it, love,” John reclines in his chair, hands behind his head, “Does such a nice job of framing that pretty face.”

“Fuck off,” Paul scoffs, reorganising his thoughts and mapping out a new strategy. 

“So,” John drums his fingers on the table, “Did ye get there in the end? Solve the puzzle? Save the world?”

“With some trial and error, yes, I did solve that problem,” he responds, mind focussed on the task at hand, lip bitten into as he pushes a pawn forward. John swipes it in a quick second with that pesky bishop. Another turn goes by, and another. 

“Well, good on you for finally getting it, lad,” John turns to look out of the circular window, earth hovering in the expanse of dark for them to gaze upon. When he finally spots his opportunity, his pulse stirs wildly. He watches John, feigning nonchalance as he contemplates his own move. There are only a handful of pieces remaining on the board, most of them belonging to John, but if he overlooks Paul’s rook he might just be able to-

John slides his queen across the board just two spaces adjacent to Paul’s king, “Check.”

Paul has to bite back the wicked smirk playing on his lips when he practically jumps up to tear his rook across the checkered squares, bumping into John’s unsuspecting knight and trapping his king between it and a measly pawn that had slowly migrated to the opposite end of the board throughout the game. 

“Check  _ mate _ ,” Paul looks up and to revel in John’s shock, only to find him looking mildly amused.

“I underestimated you,” he chuckles, meeting Paul’s eye. His eyes are a warm hue, or maybe that’s just Paul noticing their colour for the first time. The small crinkles that appear when the smile stretches into a grin trip him up entirely, having to blink himself back into reality when his defeated opponent extends a hand to shake. 

“ _ Real mature _ ,” Paul echoes, minus the snark, and John laughs. 

“You’re alright,” he concedes, and somehow this pleases Paul, warming his skin with something that feels honey sweet and uncomfortably plain to see. He hopes John doesn’t take notice of the colour in his cheeks in the stuttered moments before he has the sense to pretend to scour through his bag for something. 

“Have I proven myself, master?” 

“Sure have,” John seems to be genuine, and produces the chocolate bar to hand to Paul with relaxed features and a glint in his eyes, “Go on, then. You’ve earned it, young one.”

“I’m not  _ that  _ much younger,” Paul swipes the treat but hesitates once it’s in his hand, “You know, I don’t have to actually take it. It’s yours-”

“No, no. You’ve won. I’m a man of my word, y’see,” John places his palm over his heart, fingertips dipping over the neckline of his sky blue academy shirt and Paul makes the mistake of noticing how long his fingers are. How his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows before speaking up again, “Not a man of  _ many  _ words, are you?”

Paul runs his fingers through his hair again, eyes diverting back up quickly, “I would be, if you cared to listen.”

“Well, I care now,” John replies, and Paul notices that he’s fidgeting with his queen piece. 

“I’m glad,” Paul says, it sounds casual enough, but the truth of it rings shrill in his own ears and he has to look away, scratching at his cheek just to let his nerves settle before he notices anything else about John. He holds the chocolate bar in his hands, his mouth just about to water again from the craving for something sweet. He tears off the wrapping and snaps the bar in half, passing over one of the pieces to John.

“Aw, he does have a heart!” John coos, and Paul laughs. 

“Surprised?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell with this crowd.”

“Says the madman.”

“Well,” John tilts his head, giving Paul a sweeping look, “Birds of a feather?”

Paul doesn’t let the creeping grin spread too wide across his face, “Yeah, ‘spose so.”

They knock their halves of the bar together as if they were wine glasses and bite into them in that slow and careful way everyone treats these sorts of precious things. Things outside of strict routine. And _ Christ, it’s good _ . Really good. It’s rubbish American chocolate, probably would have tasted like dirt back on earth when he had been so spoilt for choice when he was a boy. But after years of being starved of sugary treats his mind declares it divine, he tips back his head to revel in the moment. John laughs at him, not unkindly, and imitates his face and moaning in mock-ecstasy. Paul cups his hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter when the other students take notice of his new friend’s display. 

_ A new friend _ , his heart thumps against his ribs with an excited rhythm.   
  


**[Interlude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2MdFGjVXsE) **

It was easier to make friends back home. Maybe it was the people themselves or just the rose-coloured lenses all children wear as the space around them withers and fades, warping into something gravely serious - all the time in the world to form connections and cultivate a sense of belonging that comes so easily to the innocent.

He can make  _ acquaintances  _ easily here. He has Ivan, his neighbour that will go out of his way to sit with Paul at the dining hall. There’s Ray, his former lab partner that he’d exchange routine pleasantries with along with the typical discussion of their work. There’s the girls and boys that he flirts with, that flirt with him. The common courtesy is to have some kind of familiarity before the two of you retreat to the bathrooms to get off before class starts, so there’s that. But a real friend? Last time he had that was back home, before all his classmates became competitors and so obsessed by their work they didn’t want his company and he was too busy for theirs. 

He remembers it, though. How nice it was to find George on his doorstep on a Saturday morning, holding his bicycle upright with a sharp toothed grin and a music magazine tucked under his arm. They’d ride out along gravel roads through the countryside, the sun burning the back of their necks as they pedalled through the sticky heat of the day to make it to their usual spot at the edge of a farm that one of the neighbour’s kids told him was haunted. Those days were sugar glazed and peaceful, climbing fences and picking off apples from trees and savouring every bite. And he remembers how they’d laugh until their bellies ached, swapping stories and jokes and milking every minute they could have out there. They’d sit in the sun-paled grass and flip through the glossy pages, using their front teeth to scrape every last bit of the apple’s flesh before tossing the cores as far as they could throw. 

“It’s going to be strange, not having you around,” George had said, screwing up his nose - reddened with sunburn, and looking out towards the old farmhouse at the top of the hill. 

Paul had swallowed hard, glancing down at his scuffed school shoes and shrugged, “Yeah, I guess so.”

He hadn’t really considered it before that moment, that maybe leaving all he’s ever known behind would be even somewhat painful, that maybe it would be something else besides a thrilling adventure. That maybe George will forget about him by the time he comes back home, having moved on and found a new best mate. The thought was sour, Paul fidgeted with his laces and looked back to George who still seemed to be stewing in deep thought. 

“You won’t forget about me, will you?” Paul burst as the two of them walked their bikes up a steep hill, chests heaving from exertion. The sun was out longer these days, affording them no relief from the scorching heat for a few extra hours. It was beginning to settle for the late afternoon though, a faint breeze picking up into something slightly more substantial and soothing.

“Course not,” George frowned as he wiped at the sweat beading on his brow with the back of his hand, “You won’t forget about me?”

“Course not,” Paul echoed, smiling softly. 

He had gotten a little misty eyed about it the night before he left for America. He’d heard Mike’s soft sobbing in the next room and it startled him. If he was chosen for The Program, he calculated in his head, it would be fifteen years before he saw his brother again. Paul hadn’t even been alive for fifteen years. Around midnight, a soft knock at his door stirred him and when he looked up over his covers he found Mike standing in his doorway in his pajamas with watery eyes. 

“Can I sleep in your bed?” he had whispered in the dark. Paul nodded and ushered him over, his baby brother hopping up onto the single bed and curling up on his side.

“Don’t tell Dad,” Mike sniffed, “He’d get mad if I was dis-distracting you before you left.”

“You don’t even know what that word means,” Paul had chuckled softly, rolling over onto his back and blinking against the inky darkness.

“Promise you won’t,” Mike pressed anyway, sounding close to a cry.

“I promise,” Paul hushed, “Go to sleep now.”

Something about Mike’s soft breathing and the hammering of his own little heart behind his ribs was making him tear up a little, heavy lids falling shut and hoping he could keep the tears at bay until he was sure Mike was asleep.

“Tell me how it’s going to be on the moon,” Mike’s voice was barely audible, but the phrase was so familiar that Paul had to smile a little.

“It’s going to be grand,” he promised, as he had many times before, “The grass is going to be especially grown. Real green, like. Lots of trees, too. And everyone will have a nice house and clean water. But that’s just practice for how it’s going to be on Planet X.”

“What’s that?” Mike asked, right on cue.

“That’s going to be the proper new home for everyone. The moon is too small for everyone to fit, yeah? And there isn’t water there, so, when I’m big enough to go, I’m going to the moon to see what it’s like. And I can work on all the problems before everyone gets to Planet X, because you can’t take everyone into space if the planet isn’t ready yet.” 

_ The end _ , Paul closed his eyes.

“Why can’t we just stay here?” Mike asked, and Paul’s eyes peeled open, a nervous pang in his gut making him feel like crying again.

“Because,” he took a shuddery breath, “Because it’s not going to be very nice to live here in the future. You know how it gets real hot in the summertime? It’ll be like that always. And there won’t be much rain to help the farmers. That’s why it’s important that we learn how to grow vegetables on the moon.”

Even in the dark Paul could see Mike screw up his nose at the thought, which made him smile. 

“I was saving it ‘til tomorrow, but I want to give it to you now,” Mike said softly, shifting in his place and reaching into the breast pocket of his pajamas to retrieve something.

Paul flipped over and reached under his pillow for his book light to switch it on to see. Mike was holding a pack of cards, something he won at a fair a few months earlier. His heart fluttered, gently taking his gift in his hands and smiling.

“Thank you,” he rubbed at his eye, tears blurring his vision, “I’ll bring it with me. I promise you, I will.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t picked,” Mike admitted, sitting up cross-legged, fringe flopping over his eyes. Paul’s heart twinged, and all he could do was pull his brother into a tight hug. He would feel terrible later if he agreed, even if it would make Mike feel a little better in the moment, so he just held him tighter, patting his head like their Mum used to do when they were small.

-

He and John spend the next few days working quietly and peacefully together. Separately together. They barely speak, only communicating what’s necessary before plunging back into their own work. They bump elbows every now and then while manoeuvring their equipment around the bench and typing up their findings on the bulky computers in the next room side by side. He’s itching to say something, even just a little quip about anything just to make John laugh, but his mind goes blank and his voice gets caught in his throat, as if he’s never had an intelligent thought in his life. It’s gotten frustrating now, a week later and he still finds himself stumbling over simple requests to look into the microscope and check his findings or pass him a clean petri dish. He’s just about convinced that John has lost total interest in him until Friday evening when John sits himself down in front of him at the dining hall with his dinner tray, wordless and nonchalant.

“Hi,” Paul blinks, chewing through a mouthful of a grainy mix with sparse flavouring.

“Is this seat taken, is it?” John winces, shoulders hunched like he’s already preparing to lift himself up and find another place to sit.

“No, no,” Paul shakes his head, swallowing hard, “Uh, no. It’s… It’s fine.”

John nods, pinching the corner of the plastic wrapping over his heated meal and peeling it back, blinking against the steam that rises, “Have to sit down to properly marvel at this slop.”

Paul stabs at his food with his plastic fork, “Truly makes ye weak at the knees, doesn’t it?”

John snorts, “Something like that, aye.”

Paul chuckles, scooping up another forkful of the mixture, “You know one of the level three kids got expelled for swiping the beet plants that were being grown. I reckon he was just desperate for colour in his food.”

“Oh?” John perks up, stifling a laugh, “Didn’t even touch the carrots?”

Paul shrugs, “Must have thought someone would be more likely to notice a missing carrot, I ‘spose. Think he’d been in trouble before, you know, sneaking into the pantry and taking extra portions, trying to get high with the cleaning products.”

John shakes his head, smiling, “Poor bastard.”

“Can’t imagine anything in that kitchen worth getting booted out for,” he jokes lightly. 

John hums in agreement, “Might as well go out spectacularly. A  _ real scandal _ .”

Paul quirks a brow, “Yeah? Like what?”

“Making it with one of the professors, for a start,” John answers a beat too quickly, cracking Paul up.

“They’re mostly old men!” he argues.

“So?” John smirks and shrugs a shoulder, “Ah, should have figured. You’ve never been that good with a queen, have ye?”

Paul bursts out with a laugh that surprises him, pressing his mouth to the back of his hand, “I did  _ win  _ that game, you know. Maybe a queen isn’t all that.”

“She was alright,” John chews, something mischievous and bright gleaming in his eyes, “Got t’ know how to use her right, ye see.”

“Ah, very wise,” Paul chuckles, ducking his eyes away from John’s wicked stare, “Silly me.”

“But you’re right, I wouldn’t go near any of ‘em unless I was desperate,” John chews thoughtfully, eyes scanning his tray for inspiration, “How about making a deal with the engineers to sneak in banned goods from Earth?”

“That’d get you locked away back home for a pretty long time,” Paul counters, “Better stick with something less serious.”

“But what if it was harmless stuff,” John argues, “Extra freeze-dried fruit packets. Sugar, salt… That sort of thing.”

Paul thinks it over, “I don’t know if that softens the punishment.”

“Don’t want anyone going soft on me,” John simpers and Paul finds it hard to restrain his own laughter.

“That’s what you’ll get with all your queens,” Paul teases, “Funny, here comes one now.”

He nods in the direction of the level four coordinator, Geoff, a hulking figure with shoulders that sag forward and a frown permanently pulling his mouth down at the sides. He glances over at the pair, icey eyes under thick grey brows cutting into them with an authoritative glare. They both turn away, biting back laughter as he passes them by. John fans himself, pulling a face and sending Paul into further hysterics. 

Ivan slips into the seat beside Paul, greeting John politely before turning to face him, “How’s your first week at Level Four been?”

He shrugs, glancing at John who is smiling coyly, “It’s been alright. A little more challenging, but I’ll get there.”

“Man, I don’t envy you one bit, ‘cept for getting out sooner,” Ivan sighs, propping up his chin on his fist, “You two lab partners?”

Paul nods, “Yeah, you know each other?”

Ivan half smiles, “Yeah, John an’ I go way back, met in America.”

“Is that right?” Paul looks to John, who has attention mostly fixed on his meal now.

“Smartest guy for miles,” Ivan compliments genuinely, “Next to you, of course.”

“Literally,” John comments and Paul meets his eyes with a smile. 

Later that night as the students meander through the halls, getting ready for bed as the lights grow dim, Paul is whistling as he reaches for his keycard to enter his room.

“Hey Paul,” Ivan appears in his peripheral vision, holding his own keycard in his hand, toiletries bag in the other. 

“Mm?” he looks up, sleepiness already starting to kick in. 

“I, uh, just wanted to say,” Ivan looks to the floor, puzzling out what he’s going to say, “It’s just… John’s a great bloke, yeah? You just gotta be patient with him.”

Paul shrugs, “He’s been alright to me so far.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ivan clicks his tongue, eyes wandering up the walls as if he’s recalling a memory, “I don’t mean to put it like  _ that _ , honestly, I just know that you two are great thinkers and it’d be a shame if you didn’t work together ‘cause… Well I don’t even know what I’m on about.”

Ivan sighs, scanning his card and waiting for the door to slide open, “Night Paul.”

“G’night,” Paul practically mimes, brain scrambling to decipher what Ivan could possibly be warning him about. He’d have to ask him about it properly later.

[ **Light My Fire** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cq8k-ZbsXDI&ab_channel=215Days)

He’s always been a perfectionist. Always been competitive. He’s always strived for excellence and beyond. And the worst part about those traits festering within him with such an intensity is the heightened awareness. Every empty minute translates to itching guilt. Every whisper of doubt needs to be soothed. Every day needs a goal, a purpose. Most of the time he can work with it, even thrive on it. It got him to the moon. It got him here. But there’s a loneliness to it he can’t douse. Everyone here seems to have the same problem; racing around, solving the universe’s problems and ignoring their own. The dark circles under their eyes, the debilitating isolation as they all shuffle into their quarters at the same time every night. That shrill little  _ ‘beep!’ _ sound as they swipe their key cards and step into a space that still feels more like a hotel room than something of their own. He was so excited at the start. All these intelligent people gathered together to plan out a brilliant future for everyone back home. They would save lives.  _ Save the world _ . He hardly sees that glittering brightness amongst them any more. Just very determined, very bleak eyes. They bite down their fingernails and fidget during class. They all stop and stare out their windows at that little blue planet every now and then. They never talk about it. 

He sits himself on the bed and pulls open the side table’s drawer. He was allowed to bring five personal objects with him. Why five? He doesn’t know. He thought of it like a fun little game at the time, him and his Dad shuffling through his bedroom and holding up items for inspection. It makes him shudder to think about it now. He ended up with five reasonable things, selected for an acceptable ratio of sentimentality, durability and practicality. The first being the framed photo of his family. It’s a splotchy sepia memory, the four of them sitting on a grassy hill. Mike and Paul laughing, his mother’s hand over his shoulder and his Dad’s genuine smile just about to break through. The frame is as old as the photograph itself, cherry wood or something like that. It was dull and dusty when he turned it in, and ended up finding it all shiny and clean later when he first entered his room.   
Now the frame sits on his bedside table, the only object he displays. The rest of them are stashed away. They are precious in a different, more private way, he figures. A little powder blue music box that plays a soft lullaby that his mother used to sing him to sleep with. A disposable camera that he has barely used. The pack of cards that Mike had given him. And then there’s the book his mentor back in America had written, signed with a special message just for Paul. It’s a space-adventure threaded with intricate detail from a vastly knowledgeable man. He’s lost count of how many times he’s read it, all he knows is that he still gets a thrill from opening up that first page and seeing those words - the belief that people have in him. 

-

They are playing chess again, John getting antsy as Paul flicks away yet another piece to add to his little line up of trophies. Something about John being riled up like this, still managing to be coy at his wit’s end, is endlessly endearing and amusing. He grins as he watches John tug at his sideburns absentmindedly as he assesses his next move. His hair is especially red when the lights are turned up to their brightest level during the day, something Paul notices when he sees John later at night at the dining hall, the colour of his hair closer to brown. It’s just a slight difference, something he strangely likes. He’s starting to really delight in their new companionship. The muttered jokes during class, the obscene doodles that John has to hurriedly scratch out before their professor approaches them. John’s laugh sets off like firecrackers, these wonderful bursts of joy that Paul revels in. It’s like a competition they have, trying to get the other to crack up when it’s really quiet. Sometimes all it takes is a look and they’ll both be biting down on their hands to keep from laughing and disrupting the class.

“You know, the longest game of chess was 269 moves,” Paul cradles his jaw in his palm, “I think we’re fast approaching a new record.”

John snickers, “I think we could pull that off, but I’d say it’s more fun to win right away.”

“Instant gratification is your speed, hm?” Paul taps his pointer finger on one of John’s lost rooks, and John practically growls and pushes his queen forward to crash into a knight that has been trailing a few squares across from his king. An aggressive move, too premature, and Paul proves as much when he swipes John’s queen easily with a hidden bishop that emerges from a cluster of pieces that had been overlooked by his opponent. 

“Fuck,” John groans, “Bastard.”

His hand comes down to slam firmly on the table, all the pieces wobbling a little. Paul doesn’t startle, just watches John’s determined eyes as they burn through the board in search of a revenge move worthy enough.

“You’re laughing at me,” John accuses, looking slightly irritated by the lack of options he has arranged for himself.

“I’m barely smiling!” Paul exclaims.

John picks off one of Paul’s knights with his pawn, the piece now standing too close for comfort near Paul’s queen, “What’re you smiling about now?”

Paul bites down on his lip, making a move he hadn’t thought through completely and ends up losing another valued piece in the aftermath of it. And another. And another. John has perked up again, revelling in Paul’s frustration. 

“Getting flustered, Paulie?” John grins. 

“Not at all,” Paul lies smoothly, fingers tapping at the table edge. The thrill of the game isn’t blurring his objective, but John’s presence certainly is. He wavers between being focussed, at his absolute best, and being distracted by every twitch of John’s mouth, every charming little expression that gives him away. He can read him like a book for a blink and then it’s gone. 

“Check,” John teases, long fingers brushing over the board. Paul’s face heats, worried eyes darting from corner to corner of the board in search of rescuing. He realises that he can only cower off John’s attacks for so long, he has to risk something and hope it pays off. He hears John simper and looks to him accusingly.

“Hard to think when you’re laughing like that,” Paul mutters, making a move that ultimately costs him the game.

John props up his feet on the table, looking pleased and proud about his victory.  _ What a gloat _ . Paul ought to be more sour about it but for some reason the sting is muted by how bright John looks. His blue polo sitting tight and form-fitting around his torso and that dazzling grin that bubbles up in daydreams later through the day. 

John pinches his cheek as they walk to class, “Aw, don’t be put out, McCartney. I like a guy that can win half of the time. Keeps it interesting.”

“Try fifty one percent of the time,” Paul teases him, subconsciously leaning into the touch where John’s shoulder bumps into his. Except, it’s not entirely subconscious. He pulls himself away, just an inch, but rocks back and gives John a gentle nudge. Whatever it is that they exchange in these quiet moments lingers longer than any silly defeat in a game. John’s knuckles brush over his bicep and the jolt of electricity that shivers awake as though he has sparked a raw nerve is something Paul commits to memory for later when he’s in the showers and hyper-aware of John in the next stall over. 

-

“What’s your favourite planet?” Paul asks him during a class incursion to the greenhouse. The air is humid and heavy. The class walk around the rows and rows of greenery in large boxes, inspecting the limp leaves and the texture of the soil. 

“Hmm,” John pauses, leaning against one of the benches and tilting his head up, “Mars, I think. It’s a classic, innit?”

Paul smiles, “God of war?”

“On occasions,” John smirks, “Quite fond of Neptune, too.”

“Me too,” Paul nods, absent-mindedly dragging a feather-light pointer finger over the petal of a small flower that has bloomed a clean white, “It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

“Course it does,” John argues, “It can’t mean  _ nothing _ .”

“Maybe,” he settles with a shrug, enjoying the fuzzy comparisons of Mars’ red-toned surface to John’s hair. Standing for an hour in this humidity has it curling in fluffy springs where it’s grown longest down the sides and at the nape of his neck where it’s a little damp with sweat. 

“Earth doesn’t seem so bad from here either,” John comments, nudging at the ground with his shoe.

“Yeah, funny how that works,” Paul sighs, “Grass is always greener.”

“Then we get back and it’s all brown and dead,” John muses with a dark laugh, “Still miss it sometimes, though. That’s the trouble.”

Paul’s heart skips a beat.  _ When we get back _ . He idly thinks about returning home, he and John swept up together in the world of research and academia. How they might live to see their own work spark great movements. Their legacy as pioneers before they’ve even touched down. Before they have even turned thirty.

A butterfly flutters over his shoulder and the frantic beating of its wings startles Paul. His cheeks tint rose and he hopes with everything he has that John didn’t see his momentary panic. Instead, when he looks up he finds John staring at him. No smirk or cheeky grin. Just a sort of dreamy expression that he can’t quite read. It doesn’t look completely vacant of thought or emotion, though. His skin buzzes with a newfound warmth. A stray thought clicks into place -  _ maybe John feels the same way _ . Maybe he too is feeling breathless about how easily they can be comfortable together. How effortless it is to burst into random musings and enjoy the pendulum swing of banter that follows. He directs his attention away from his companion, choosing to focus on the professor who is approaching him with a new task to complete. It’s the giddy feeling that presses out a gust of a breath from his lungs when he looks up a minute into their discussion and finds that John is still looking at him, a slight curl of a smile and shy eyes quickly darting away.

-

Chess games have morphed from friendly competition to long conversations with short intervals of actual game playing. Neither of them are bothered when they exit the common room and realise that they don’t remember who won. They laugh at themselves, walking shoulder to shoulder back to another class where they will slip right to the back row and pass notes written in code. He keeps John’s notes, and smiles when he sees John filing his carefully in a folder. It’s sweet, which is a word he doesn’t think he’s ever applied to anyone before. But that’s what John is. 

“ _ Ain’t she sweet, see her walking down that street _ ,” he hums to himself as he walks back from the bathrooms. His hair is still damp from his shower, dark and shiny and plastered in dripping streaks over his forehead. 

“Hey, Paul,” John’s voice interrupts his daydreaming just before he can pull out his keycard.

“Yeah?” he pushes back the hair from his forehead, embarrassed about looking like a drowned rat, and John falters over his words for a moment.

“I, uh, just thought- was thinking, um… Don’t think I really understood what Martin was talking about before, you know, with those energy levels and such. Don’t ‘spose you could tutor me?”

He looks shy about the request, mouth set tight when he finishes speaking and arms flat against his sides. 

“Course I can,” Paul nods, rapid movement of his head almost making him dizzy, “Come in, I can get my notepad for you.”

He fumbles with the keycard hastily and they file into the room. Paul sets aside his toiletries bag and reaches over his desk to grab his notepad for Martin’s class and flips through the pages. At the corner of each page a little doodle by John will be inked like a stamp of approval. He bites down a smile and passes the pad over to him.

John pulls his glasses from where they are tucked in the dip of the neckline of his shirt and sits them over his nose, “So, what does this mean, right here?”

Paul looks over his shoulder, his chin hovering just a mere inch from the fabric of John’s sleeve. He breathes in the faint scent of the cheap soap they all use and the spice of something uniquely John. He has to take a moment to marvel at that, how his whole body seems to gravitate towards the warmth radiating from his flesh. 

His explanations are rambles that might not make much sense at all, but John just stands there and nods along. He asks questions and Paul answers. It shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is. It shouldn’t feel like his skin is burning up and his throat shouldn’t go dry when John angles his head so that his neck is exposed to Paul and all it would take to lean forward and kiss it would be a clumsy dip in his posture. 

“Thanks for that,” John says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around the room quickly. 

“No problem,” Paul replies, gently laying the notepad down on the desk and pretending to take great care in its position just so he has the chance to take a deep breath and steady himself. It’s a crush, just a silly crush. Admiration given a chance to spiral. It can be ignored, it can be ignored.

It occurs to him for the first time that John has probably never reached out to anybody for help with his work. That he has always been so inherently brilliant and hard working that he has never needed to reach out to someone. And the thought of him going straight to Paul instead of a professor? It renders him breathless. There’s a trust in that. There’s an underlying intimacy that gives Paul goosebumps.

John looks to him with a bashful smile, cheeks coloured a faint pink. His hooded lids obscure the bronze gleam of his eyes. He looks almost post-coital like that, and  _ Oh Christ _ , he can’t ignore this. He’s not one to stamp out a flame but this feels totally different from any infatuation he’s ever experienced before. The thunder of it rattles him long after John exits his room with a quiet goodbye. He can barely manage to stutter out something pleasant to send him on his way with before the door closes in front of his nose. He sags against the wall with his eyes fixed on the blue dot outside that window reminding him exactly where he is. 

-

It’s his twenty first birthday and the moon is a lonely place to celebrate such a milestone. 

Luckily, he’s not alone this year. 

John nudges him with a nudge of his elbow to the side of his head at breakfast as he rounds the table to sit at his usual spot across from Paul. 

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday,” he says it like an accusation, frowning as he peels the plastic from over his bowl of porridge, “Had to find out on the daily announcements.” 

Paul gives a sheepish shrug, “Does it matter?”

John blinks down at his breakfast, posture sinking a little, “It matters a little.”

“Enough for the kitchen to make one of those tasteless cupcakes with that horrible icing,” Paul supplies and laughs softly as he picks at his own breakfast bit by bit, “Thanks, though.”

“You didn’t give me much time to rustle up a prezzie, but I think I’ve got something you’ll like,” John always announces his little schemes with this certain smile. And every time he does it there’s a zip of thrill up Paul’s spine to complement it. John doesn’t look at anyone else like that. Paul notices because he can’t help but be so painfully aware of everything John does. Every bit of small talk with Ivan in line to get lunch, every quip he mutters that has the classmates around him giggling, every time he enters a room and searches with squinted eyes for Paul. John reserves these particular looks just for him, knowingly or not, and it’s overwhelming.

“You didn’t have to get-”

“Aye, none of that,” John hushes, waving his plastic fork in the air, “Anyway, it’ll have to wait for later.”

He beams and struggles to hide it. Walking in the halls with John at his side makes him feel powerful in a way he’s never felt before. He feels brighter, like the two of them glow with something special. Going back and forth in class with answers and solutions is more than just being paired with an intellectual match. It’s  _ so _ much more than that. They complement each other, climbing up each rung of the ladder together. It’s better than inherent competitiveness. It’s the joy of achieving something  _ together _ . The knowing smile they give each other when they figure out the answer before anyone else. The effortless way they can edit each other’s thinking and lead each other down the right path. It’s better than anything he’s ever experienced, from here to and back to Earth. 

What’s more, Paul can tell him about things, and the same for John. He tells him about his Dad and brother back home, about how he would lie on his back in the yard and just stare at the sky for hours and daydream about what was beyond the clouds that float past. John tells him about his childhood marred by the chips in his shoulder that a loving aunt and uncle couldn’t fill. He tells him about how desperately he wanted to be somebody significant. Paul tells him about the pressure of being a working class boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and John tells him how every achievement would never satisfy that primal hunger to impress people around him. They swap these stories in the privacy of Paul’s room. John will take over the bed, shuffling the deck of cards in busy hands and Paul will sit up in his desk chair and rock back and forth and relay childhood tales. He’s told these stories before but the words had never felt so important to share before, the jokes had never landed so well. He’s in awe of how much  _ better  _ John makes him. They keep talking well into the night like nothing can be left behind when John leaves to go to his own bed. It’s John’s impression on the bed that Paul slips into, the warmth he’s left behind that lulls him to sleep.

It’s nine at night and while tea and stale biscuits are being served in the dining hall and the common room buzzes with activity and chatter, John and Paul sneak away. Whether John actually has permission to drive one of the cars that leads them through underground tunnels to different sections of the moon base isn’t totally clear. Neither is their destination. But Paul is content enough just to sit back and watch John press down on the pedal and edge the speed closer and closer to the limit. His hair is whipping wildly, his grin sharp and bright. 

The garage is a giant building that houses the ships that import goods and take away garbage and unwanted items. Workers mill about, too busy to notice the two mischief-makers that are sneaking up the ladder to one of the balconies that overlooks the entire garage. Everything is some shade of grey, dark smoke pummelling from gaps in the floor, from the exhaust pipes of the ship. The ceiling is high enough to grant their lungs relief when they make it to the balcony, shuffling back to sit with their backs to the wall. John sits his duffel bag on his lap, sliding closer to Paul and nudging his knee with a playful tap. 

“Go on, open your present,” he urges, sounding giddy. Paul giggles as he pries open the bag and reaches inside. He extracts a bottle of wine wrapped in a dish cloth, a chocolate bar and a bundle of various small comic books. 

“Oh, John,” he breathes out, “ _ How _ ? How did you-”

“I’ve got my wicked ways,” John smiles coyly, “Just have myself a deal with some of the blokes down here. Get myself a portion of some of the contraband.”

“How much contraband are we talking about here?” Paul blinks in disbelief.

“A fair portion, nothing to worry about. Just the necessities. Proper drink, for a start. None of that powdered fruit juice in a plastic cup they give us on New Years Eve. Decent books. Chocolate. Sugar. Packets of food with flavour that aren’t approved by our supreme leaders.”

He shakes his head, amazed. His mind is whirring with the instinct to flee, to cast aside what is illegal and dangerous and resort to safety and desperately urge John to do the same. But more than anything, he’s flattered and touched beyond belief. He can barely articulate what he’s feeling. Just  _ grateful _ . Grateful that John gives a damn about him. Grateful that he found John in the first place. There’s no one else he’d rather break the rules with, after all this time he was convinced he was the only one that  _ wanted  _ to break some of the rules.

“This is great,” he smiles at John, “It really is.”

“Shall we?” John taps the bottle and Paul grins and twists the cap open. The wine is sweet and smokey, tasting like plums and old leather. It burns a little at the back of his throat when he swallows with eyes closed in blissful appreciation of the flavour and of the buzz already spreading out through his limbs and out to his fingertips by the time he hands the bottle back to John. He takes an indulgent look at him with his lips pressed to the rim of the bottle, the flutter of his lashes glinting silver in the light when he closes his eyes and lets out an appreciative moan at the first taste. Another sip, and another and another. Back and forth. John’s lips are stained cherry red, a peaceful smile on his face as he rests his head on the wall behind them and settles into the pleasant fuzz the alcohol brings them. They split the chocolate in half, it’s dark and rich and melts on his tongue. They both haven’t spoken in a good few minutes, just appreciating the taste of these treats with all the giddiness of children doing something they shouldn’t. He looks down at the comics, flashy superheroes in brightly coloured costumes soaring through the sky on the covers. The kind he’d look through the window of the local bookstore and marvel at when he was a kid. The sort they could never afford to buy on a whim. He promises that he’ll share them with John but he’s not sure his companion is paying full attention. 

“Dozing off already?” he smiles, gently taking the wine bottle back into his hands and taking another mouthful. 

“Just relaxed,” John stretches out his legs, rolling his shoulders back, “Does your head in, doesn’t it? All of this.”

His gesture is vague enough so Paul isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the garage, their unique lives on the moon or even just the energy buzzing between them. Paul nods and affirms his musing with a hum.

“You wanna know the thing I miss the most?” John sighs, the warmth of his side burning into Paul. He takes another sip and contemplates the possible answers. What does John Lennon miss the most? More wine? The people back home? He lulls his head to the side, sated breaths and hooded lids as he watches John formulate his answer.

“Live music,” John says eventually, “The kind you can really  _ feel _ .”

“Christ, I know exactly what you mean,” Paul groans, eyes slipping closed. Back in America, on those precious Sundays that weren’t crammed full of lessons and training, he would stalk out into the next town over and find a bar with live music playing. It could be anything, a breezy folk tune by a street performer or a powerful rock and roll number by a fully fledged performer bouncing around on a stage.  _ Something you can really feel _ , Paul remembers, from head to heels. He opens his eyes and sees the dreamy glaze over John’s eyes and feels his chest go fuzzy and warm.

“This place needs it. A resident band,” John muses, words slurring a little. Paul imagines it. A dance hall with fairy lights and people dancing - twirling and twisting in time with each other. The intimacy of human nature, he figures, is what this place needs. It needs more of what he and John have.

“How about Johnny and the Moondogs?” he suggests, much to John’s amusement.

“The Nerk Twins,” he retorts, “Lennon McCartney.”

“Lennon McCartney?” Paul raises a brow, “McCartney Lennon.”

“Nah, mine sounds better,” John dismisses, stumbling over his vowels in a sleepy drawl that makes Paul giggle. He’s dissolving into a bubbly state of sleepiness, slanting against John and savouring the last mouthful of wine. Savouring everything about this moment. The two of them above everyone else. In all the roar of machinery and shouts between workers, all he can really focus on is the presence beside him. 

They slip back to their personal quarters with clumsy footing and muffled laughter. The halls are darkened and they mistake about three different doors for their own before they reach Paul’s room. John is just about to fall asleep on his feet so he invites him in with a whisper. His comic books are secured under his shirt, the empty bottle and the chocolate wrapper properly disposed of in the industrial bins back at the garage. They are victorious and Paul can hardly believe how happy he is. 

He shucks off his shirt and pants, yawning into his palm as he slips under the covers and shuffles over so he is pressed to the wall so John can fit beside him on the small bed. It might be something he would have been more timid about had he been sober, but the blurry film of tipsiness pacifies any self consciousness or doubt. He feels John’s bare shoulder against his own and feels his skin go warm all over. Maybe it should be uncomfortable, sharing this tiny bed after a lifetime of preferring to be by himself - he’s always been a little relieved when a one night stand gathered their things and left him to enjoy the whole bed for himself for at least the morning. But this is different. There’s something so solid and snug about John next to him, the dip of the mattress under their weight together. He drifts off into a deep sleep with the taste of wine coating his tongue and John’s slow rhythmic breathing just as dreamy as any lullaby.

-

He wakes with a sigh and a lazy stretch of his limbs out over the mattress. He blinks, the alarm ringing through the speakers at a low volume barley registering at first. Another minute and he realises that John is beside him. The alarm is louder now. He stills, braving a glance to John’s profile. He’s still asleep, hair unruly, face completely relaxed. The sheets are pulled up to his chest and Paul has to tear his eyes away with a strained effort and make a strategic effort to exit the bed without waking him. He pulls on his clothes, another blue polo and with another pair of charcoal pants, and combs his hair with his fingers. He travels to the bathrooms and splashes his face with cold water and rinses the stale taste of sugar and alcohol from his mouth and then splashes his face again and combs his hair properly. People greet him as he walks by, nothing unusual, nothing about his face that gives him away.

John is half awake by the time he returns, sheets tangled between his legs and eyes barely cracked open at all to peer at Paul with a scruntising look before his head hits the pillow again.

“Morning,” he sing-songs, organising his folders at his desk, setting out his timetable for the day and checking his watch to make sure they haven’t missed breakfast.

“Don’t want t’ get up,” he grumbles into the pillow.

“I see that,” Paul clicks his tongue and gathers his folders, “Here, c’mon. We can make breakfast if you just put on yesterday’s uniform and get your things afterwards.”

“Mmph,” John pulls himself upwards, pale torso heaving with a heavy sigh. Paul ducks his head and picks up the discarded clothes from the floor, “Did you dream last night?”

“What?” Paul spins around just as John pulls his shirt over his head.

“Did you dream last night?” he repeats, blinking slowly, “You made this noise, I dunno if you were scared or something.”

“Oh,” Paul chuckles over the strange burning embarrassment creeping up his neck for no tangible reason and colouring it rose, “Uh, I don’t know. Might’ve been? Don’t remember.”

“Hm,” John straightens his shirt by tugging at the hem, looking thoughtful and soft. If it were a rainy Sunday morning back home he would have crawled back into bed and drifted off again, John still dreaming at his side, and maybe he would have remembered his dream more clearly. Remembered kissing a vague mirage of John over and over until everything fizzled into daybreak. 

-

They are working in Paul’s room, scribbling in their own workbooks in their usual positions when Paul glances up to John and can’t bring himself to look away. He’s particularly stunning today. Focused and dreamy all the same, and Paul has this strange feeling gripping his throat - not the jittery excitement of a crush but of something more warm and at peace. There’s hardly any time when John isn’t spouting wild witticisms and buzzing with pure charm, but right now he is calm and unguarded. Quietly working with the occasional quirk of his mouth, a flicker of his brow, sometimes mouthing along to the words he writes down. He’s achingly beautiful like this, and Paul can’t help it when he stands up and walks to his bedside table and opens the drawer. He takes out his camera, only then does John look to him with a bemused look.

“What’re you doing?” he asks as Paul points the lens down at him and snaps a photo. 

“Oi! Give me a warning first!” John brings his palm over his face and flinches his body away towards the wall. 

Paul smiles shyly and waits for the camera to spit out a polaroid, pinching the corner and waving it in the air and waits for it to develop, “You don’t need one.”

“I need  _ three _ , at least,” John grumbles, inching closer to the wall and looking at Paul from over his shoulder, “Fucking sneak, you are.”

Paul looks down at the photo, heart fluttering as a pale rendering of John’s visage slowly grows bolder. He’s not quite looking into the lens, but just above it, looking up from underneath his fringe and the thick rims of his glasses, lips slightly parted and forming a small smile. The rest of the image is slightly out of focus but his face is perfectly clear, pale skin gleaming warm in the cool light of the room. Paul gulps, aware that the polaroid is quivering between his pinched fingers, and quickly extends the photograph to John to inspect. He glances at it, lips thinned and eyes suspicious. 

“Ugh,” he grimaces, “Told you.”

“It’s a good one,” Paul frowns, pulse points pounding, “Really good.”

“It’s got nothing to do with your photography skills,” John waves him away and looks down to his workbook, cheeks noticeably pink, “Why do you still have film left, anyway?”

Paul shrugs, looking down at the camera shyly, “It says I’ve got two photos left. Spent most of them taking photos of buildings and equipment, kind of regret it now that I’m so used to everything. But my family might like that sort of thing, so I suppose it’s alright.”

“Alright, alright,” John chuckles, “Don’t need your whole life story.”

Paul laughs, “Thought you liked my rambling?”

“Yeah, puts me right to sleep every time,” John snorts as Paul swats him half-heartedly and accidentally takes another photo, “Hey! You’re wasting it!”

“I’m not!” Paul argues, laughing as he catches the polaroid before it falls to the floor, “This one will be good.”

“Come on, show me,” John demands and shuffles aside to allow Paul to sit beside him. They look down to the photo and watch it take form, a slightly blurry portion of John’s face, screwed up in laughter and Paul’s white forearm obscuring the rest of him. 

“Oh, that’s a keeper,” Paul declares, humming with pride, and John just laughs, head ducking into his shoulder. 

“You’re mad,” he tells him with lips pressed to the fabric of Paul’s sleeve, voice sounding soft and bubbly with giggles. 

“One photo left,” Paul places the two photos of John on the bedside table and looks back to the camera.

“How about one of yourself?” John suggests. 

“One of us together,” Paul counters and looks back to John, almost nose to nose with the other boy. His breath hitches, the moment holding out a beat too long before John nods and agrees quietly. He lifts the camera up, facing them.

“Should we smile?” John asks, sounding shy.

“Uh, I dunno,” Paul chuckles nervously, “It’d be strange if we were serious.”

“Alright, how about mild amusement?” John titters, nudging Paul’s ribs with his elbow. Paul, ticklish, bends a little and knocks his knee into John’s leg in retaliation. They’re both giggling, and his finger bends over the button and the moment is captured with a bright light bursting in front of their eyes.

“Oh Christ,” John laughs, “This’ll be good.”

It’s not good. Not good at all. 

The two of them form on the plastic square and Paul’s heart is in his throat. The photo is perfectly in focus, faultless in composition and utterly perfect. They aren’t quite looking at each other, but he can tell that they are just about to look up and meet eyes. They’re both grinning, pressed so close together it’s startling how intimate it seems. Paul becomes aware of his breathing, the heaviness of the pressure on his chest. 

The two of them admire the photo in silence, and Paul can’t stand it, squirming a little and making a soft noise with his throat to wake himself up, “It didn’t turn out too bad.”

“Yeah,” John hums, “Not bad at all.”

He’s relieved when John scoops up the photos at the end of the session and keeps them for himself. Paul doesn’t know if he could handle seeing that again.

[ **Need You Tonight** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Swdbv5I6qzc&ab_channel=CruiseControl)

John’s room is identical to his but there’s something almost tangibly different about it. He stands with his hands in his pockets, back to the wall and watches John as he begins to shuffle through the pile of books on his desk. His eyes meander back over to the bed, no real conscious intent to rake through the details for any personal touches but he realises that that is exactly what he’s doing anyway. Sitting on top of the bedside drawer is a sleek silver case, opened up to reveal a harmonica. Beside it, a hardcover edition of Alice in Wonderland. Paul smiles a little, ducking his eyes down to his shoes to hide the delight that blooms in his chest. 

“What are you grinnin’ about?” John huffs, suddenly appearing in front of Paul, textbook in hand and brows arched.

“Just giddy, is all,” Paul answers and takes the book from him, “First time I’ve been invited to a guy’s  _ personal quarters _ .”

“So to speak,” John laughs. His eyes glint in the low light - controlled levels at all times. Nothing about what sparks between them feels controlled. 

Paul is a little breathless when he glances away, back towards the bedside table.   
“You play?”

“The mouth organ?” John scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah. If I didn’t by now that’d be a concern.”

“Not many of our friends here exactly have bluesy sensibilities,” Paul scoffs, “Lots of violins playing Tchaichovsky late into the night.”

“No thanks,” John grunts, “Would have brought my ol’ banjo but they said that they couldn’t guarantee they’d supply me with extra strings. Got me thinking about how I’ll just end up spending all my time worrying about snapping strings and running out. Too depressing, in the end.”

Paul nods, “I think one of the guys, a French bloke, can’t play his violin anymore. Played it like a guitar when his bow withered down to nothing and then just stuffed it under his bed when the strings rusted and broke. Seemed real down about it.”

“What did you bring?” John asks, walking over and sitting on his bed, cross-legged with his pillow propped up behind his back. 

Paul shrugs, “Family things. A photo, a gift from my brother… Have all my needs covered here, don’t I?”

“Not all of ‘em,” John picks up the harmonica and holds it to his lips, “That’s why I’ve got my little friends down at the garage.”

“You outlaw” Paul teases lightly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and trying to play casual.

John plays a short blues hook, something vaguely familiar - must have heard it in an old western, “Ol’ Johnny Lennon. Space criminal.”

He chuckles, looking down at the reflective surface of the mouth organ before he plays the hook again, this time a little smoother. Paul’s eyes catch on the sight of him licking his lips - his long fingers curling over the harmonica, his lashes fluttering as he lets the last note shiver out. And he wonders why it’s making his heart quiver - this urge to reach out and try to echo the same tune. Why having his mouth pressed where John’s was could elicit such a heated thrill within him. It’s not a puzzle to solve, an equation with a clear cut answer. 

It’s like watching a flower bud bloom, the way John’s eyes open and meet his. They’re so warm. His throat is tight, nerves fluttering as he takes measured breaths in an effort to seem unaffected. And if they were just two guys on a regular bed in a regular bedroom, maybe he would have scooted closer. Maybe he would have batted his eyes and flirted with more direct intent. Maybe he would have let his fingers brush against his as he slipped the harmonica out his hand and wet his lips and-

But the inescapable reality of the situation isn’t lost on him for even a moment. The sheets are too starchy. The room is too pristine. They can only hear the sound of their own breathing and the hum of machines that after a while you only notice when you make an effort to stop and really listen for them. The door has a lock - a cosmetic feature. Anyone with authority could barge in at any moment. This isn’t a place to form a bond like this. You can have organised and quick shags in the showers with a partner that are just a means of a convenient release. You can have the same small talk with the lad in the library over and over and feel comforted by his presence. You can grow close to fellow students in a way that is ultimately so distant it makes you sick with how lonely it all is. At the end of the day, there is no one here that knows him. There’s no one here that even wants to know him. Everyone has their heads in their work and there isn’t room for more than five items.

But John is watching him from across the bed like he’s expecting the dam to break. He can see the slight tremble in his hand as he keeps that bloody harmonica hovering over his mouth. Paul swallows down hard, pulling his gaze away and onto the floor. Grey carpet. No pattern. Just like his own. 

“I wanted to take my guitar too,” Paul admits suddenly, voice quieter, “Music was the only thing separate from study. From all this. Might have been the only thing that made me feel normal, really. Well, not  _ normal _ , but… It was separate from all this. All the pressure. But Dad thought it was a distraction, so I left it behind. Gave it to a friend that probably sold it for a case of beer before I had even touched down in America.”

He chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head. John adjusts his posture, sitting upright and letting his hands fall into his lap. Paul can feel his stare burn into him. 

“Hadn’t thought about it ‘til just now,” he adds for no particular reason, pinching an imaginary speck of lint off of his shirt. 

“Too bad,” John says and pauses for a beat, “Could ‘ave started that skiffle band.”

They both break into light laughter, turning to smile at each other brightly. Paul hasn’t felt this drawn to someone before. Like he has to fight this physical force that’s pulling and pulling pulling. The intensity flares when John swings his legs over and slides down so he is sitting next to Paul.

“Hey,” John nudges him with his shoulder.

“Mm?” Paul stares down at the inch of space between their knees. He doesn’t fight the urge to touch, knocking the boney edge of his knee to John’s with a little tap that somehow sends a fluttering of goosebumps up his arms. 

“I’ve gone all this time thinking I was the only real genius here,” from his peripheral vision Paul can see that John is looking down to the floor as well. And he might just see the rosy tint of his cheeks in the glimpse he allows himself to sneak before he bites down on his lip and concentrates on keeping his breaths steady. 

“Humble,” Paul remarks with sarcasm marred by how his voice wavers like a flickering candle.

“But whatever it is that makes me that… a genius or a loon… I think you have it too.”

Paul flushes, skin prickling and stomach twisting. It’s somehow the best compliment and the worst prophecy he’s ever heard. He presses his knee to John’s again just to anchor himself, “Is that your final diagnosis, Doctor?” 

“ _ Hello Nurse _ ,” John simpers, the two of them giggling with temples almost bumping together, “You know there’s no cure for it. Just ways to make ye more comfortable ‘til the end.”

“What ways are these, hm?” Paul braves a slight tilt of his head to look right at John, to see the faded freckles over his nose, the nervous rapid blinking, the way everything narrows down to the shape of his eyes. 

They both lean forward, lips meeting in a shy press before they can adjust their posture to properly fall into each other. They kiss like they expect it all to implode any second now, but they want to savour every moment they can. Paul kisses tenderly, mouth gone slack and malleable for John to shape however he pleases. His hands stroke over his hair, his clothes. He tries to commit everything to memory. The shape of John’s shoulders, the whimper that gets caught between their mouths, the weightlessness of everything. And he feels, right down to the marrow of his bones, that in all those galaxies pulsing in an endless and unknown expanse of nothing but starlight and emptiness, there is nothing more profound or beautiful than how their mouths fit together. He could take all his research about the sun and find nothing that compares to the pure light radiating in his core. He can taste starlight, hear the roar of planets rotating in definite orbits. He can feel solar flares in the wake of John’s fingers raking down his spine. When they pull away just to breathe and marvel at the moment it’s akin to seeing a full moon on a clear night. Something that sparks a jolt of joy, a simultaneously familiar and brand new feeling of awe. 

-

They burn up for a week before they break. It’s the little things that drive him mad. Catching John’s reflection in the mirror, damp with sweat from a fitness training session. Him emerging from his shower with a towel wrapped low around his hips. When John catches him staring he doesn’t even smile, just lets his eyes rake over Paul’s back for a slow moment of indulgence and turns away to rush to the sinks. The small touches during class - a deliberate hand brushing over his hip, a nudge to his arm, a shoe bumping into his under the dining table. The looks, hooded lids and bitten lips. The lingering moments before bed, just standing at the door with a keycard in hand and other students milling around as potential witnesses to a crime they are both aching to commit. Relations aren’t strictly forbidden, but rather strongly discouraged. They are told heartbreak would be a distraction and a pregnancy would spell disaster. But when there’s a will, there’s a way. 

They are in the library, close to the ‘bed time’ signal that will have all the students scrambling to their rooms when John grabs him by the wrist and leans in close, “We should go to the stalls.”

The bathroom is coming down from its peak traffic hour, male students are mostly emerging from the showers or brushing their teeth at the sinks. Steam rising and water running. The clean white tiles are cool under his feet as he navigates through half dressed bodies to follow John down to the very last stall. John barely checks behind him before he drags Paul into the empty stall after him, pressing him up against the door and making a loud ‘thud’ sound in the process. 

“John!” he laughs quietly, voice crackling a little when John’s thigh slots between his. His hands fly up to hold his shoulders, blood going hot when he hears the soft click that signals that the door is locked. 

“You’re driving me mad,” John whines, mouth to his neck, “Sucking on that bloody pen like you’re trying to drain the ink from it.”

Paul splutters a laugh, “I was?”

“Shut up,” he rolls his hips, “You were looking right at me when you were doing it.”

Paul smirks, “Might’ve been.”

John drags his hand over the seam running under his thigh, cupping his crotch and biting into his shoulder with a moan, “Just need t’ touch you.”

He arches his back, pressing closer into John and kissing him hard and desperate. They strip down with rough tugs of their clothes and turn the water on. It’s a barely-warm spray that they’ve gotten used to over the years, though it’s barely noticeable when they stand underneath together and jerk each other off with bitten down moans and whimpers that are swallowed down in the effort to be discreet. The glaze over John’s eyes is sending him over the edge, the feeling of his hands dragging over his back and the soft scratch of blunt nails when he gets close to finishing. 

And when they’re done they watch the lather of soap running down the curves of each other’s bodies, drinking in the heat of the moment they are still caught up in. They’re both still sweating when they slip out of the stall minutes later, their faces flushed and lips bitten red. There are students and instructors stalking the halls so they can’t share a bed tonight. It’s a cruel shock to the afterglow of their intimacy, but when he licks over his lip and leans close to whisper in John’s ear that tomorrow night he’s going to take his time sucking him off, the sound John makes when he shivers is worth it. 

Frantic sessions in the shower are great, but it’s when they manage to sneak out of a barely supervised library session and race back to John’s room that Paul loses himself in the intimacy. The slow and drawn out motions where they revel in the bliss of each other’s touch. John’s thighs are like silk against his cheek when he dips lower to suck at the skin over his hip bone and continues trailing down down down and up up up. He loves hearing John’s whimper just as it is, not restrained and hidden under the running water and voices bouncing off the walls. It’s just them now, heavy breaths over warm skin and murmured explicits and swollen mouths and the wet sounds of kissing and the thumping of their heartbeats.

They curl up together with the covers pulled up to their hips and watch each other’s eyes. Time ticks by and on some level they are both aware of it. And Paul wishes that the sense of urgency that has been ingrained into his psyche could just grant him this precious moment of total peace. He wants to just feel this as it is, he wants to float through time and space without a plan, without impending doom to push him along. Just for now, at least. They can’t fall asleep like this, they have to return to the library and split apart and pretend that they are nothing more than classmates and friendly competitors. 

They work quietly together, shoulder to shoulder. A love bite blooming red at the dip of his neck, and another at the base of John’s throat.  
  


**[Us and Them](https://youtu.be/nDbeqj-1XOo)  
  
**

“Hello Paul,” Dr Roberts greets him kindly, sitting herself down in a black pleather armchair as he tries to adjust to the uncomfortable firmness of the couch across from her, “As you know, this is your biannual mental health check up, so I’m just going to ask you a few questions. If you’re not sure about something, just say so and I’ll help you along. And please answer honestly, it’s all very useful for us to help you and for future research.”

Paul nods, hands clasped together over his lap. 

Dr Roberts jots a note down, “So Paul, generally speaking, how have you been these last six months?”

“Good,” Paul shrugs a little shyly, “The same.”

“I noticed in your file that you have been moved up to level four since we last spoke,” Dr Roberts smiles. And maybe it’s his aversion to the unnecessary poking and prodding of his innermost thoughts but he thinks her smile is fake - painted on in false empathy. Like in his first year at the academy when another doctor scanned through his family history and made a vocal note of his mother’s cancer just before his physical and barely noticed when he visibly recoiled in shock. The memory always makes his stomach turn.

“That’s right.”

“That is a wonderful achievement,” she tilts her head, “And I imagine there is a great deal of responsibility and pressure that comes with that.”

“Not really,” Paul shrugs again and self consciously stills his shoulders to prevent him from doing it again, “I’m doing just fine. Have lots of help around me if I need it.”

“That is good,” she nods enthusiastically, jotting another note down and moving onto the first question, “Have you been sleeping alright?”

“Yes,” he nods.

It’s the same every time. Questions about his daily routine and habits. His mood and energy levels. Has he felt restless? Experienced panic attacks? Does he feel alone? His answers are short and basic, a signal to her that there’s nothing to dig for. She surprises him though, as he’s getting up to leave.

“I must say, Paul, you seem much happier. Your score is not too different from last time but I can just sense it from you. I’m glad to see it.”

He blinks, stuttering out a thank you and a goodbye before he slips out of the office and back into the hallway where another student is waiting for her session. He feels a smile curve up the sides of his mouth, involuntary and totally embarrassing, but genuine. 

-

His engineering class with John is spent quietly passing tools and spare parts back and forth, making jokes and assisting each other. John adjusts his glasses over his nose after leaning over the air quality indicator for an extended period of time. 

“Bleeding thing isn’t working,” he grumbles, “Have I overdone it?”

“No,” Paul frowns and hovers over the machine to scrutinize it, “It’s just the light that’s gone out, you can see it’s still working here.”

His hand ghosts over John’s, a brush of easy contact that still thrills him. John watches him work, twisting a new tiny bulb into place with careful fingers.

“I’m not the detail guy that you are.”

“‘S why we’re such a great team,” he replies breezily, a gentle nudge to John’s side.

“We are,” he says, and he can hear his smile.

“ _ John Lennon? John Lennon please report to Office E. John Lennon, please report to Office E. Thank you. _ ”

Everyone in the classroom stills. Paul shifts on his feet, a cold discomfort wracking through him when he sees John’s confused profile.

“What’s that about?” Paul asks, but John is just shaking his head, “Here, I’ll look after your things.”

John mumbles a thanks and fixes up his collar absent-mindedly as he shuffles out from behind their bench. He pokes Paul in the arm playfully, smirking when he jumps a little. He watches him walk out the door, ignoring the whispers from the other students as he exits the room. 

-

John doesn’t return for class. Or the lecture afterwards. He’s not in his room when Paul stops by to drop off his equipment. By the time he’s made it into the dining hall for lunch he’s worried. He scans the lineup of people, searching for that head of auburn hair. He listens out for that wild laugh. Nothing. The empty chair in front of him is the black hole of his vision, a strange pull in his chest seriously alerting him now.

Ivan’s lunch tray clatters on the table where he drops it haphazardly in the rush to speak to Paul, “Did you hear what happened with John?”

“He was called to one of the offices,” Paul’s gut twists in a sharp knot when he notes Ivan’s worried features, “That’s all I know… Why?”

Ivan bites on his lip, shaking his head, “He’s gotten himself expelled.”

“What?”

“Busted for importing stuff off the record.”

“Oh God,” the colour drains from his face, “Oh shit.”

“He’s not going to jail or anything, he’s a… well, he was a prized student and a first time offender and they just want him to leave quietly. No paid retirement, no nothing for him.”

“I don’t believe it,” Paul struggles, “How did you find out?”

“Went round to pick up some work from Geoff’s office, saw him in the waiting area with his head in his hands. Told me everything, told me he’s going to be leaving tomorrow morning on the next shipment out.”

“Tomorrow?” 

“He’ll probably just be locked in his room ‘til then,” Ivan looks down to the table, “I’m really sorry, Paul.”

“No,” Paul feels ill, “No need for- I’m just… He’s leaving tomorrow?”

Ivan looks at him, brow creased and lips turned downwards, “He asked me to tell you. And to tell you not to worry, he’d hate it if you were worried.”

-

The idea of life continuing as he starves of the comfort they bring each other is a looming dread that is beginning to crash and burn in the chasm of John’s absence. Nothing feels right now, the rest of the day’s classes dragging painfully long and dull. He can’t absorb any information, just the slow tick of time. Bloated minutes testing Paul’s patience. 

His hands are sweaty and trembling a little when he knocks on John’s door later that night. He had practically sprinted down the hall, receiving a firm telling off from one of the level two instructors in the process. In any other circumstance that would have spooked him well enough to flee into hiding. Not the case here. He’s running over words in his mind but none of them sound right. Too heavy, not heavy enough. Too flowery. Too blunt. Not honest enough. Though he doesn’t have much hope he’ll be able to articulate anything he’s feeling, given how he barely will allow himself to accept that this is the end. It doesn’t make sense. 

He approaches John’s door like it might just be a mirage, knocking softly. When it opens suddenly he flinches like he’s been stung.

Geoff greets him gruffly, “Yes?”

“Oh, I- Sorry Sir, I was hoping I could see John before he left?” Paul shrinks under the older man’s imploring stare. There’s a long silence, the older man assessing him with a blank look.

“Yes, I suppose you can say goodbye,” Geoff steps back after giving him another careful once over, allowing Paul to enter the room. John has his duffle bag in one hand, Alice in Wonderland in the other. He seems genuinely surprised to see Paul, an unguarded look flickering over his features before he sets himself back to false boredom. 

“Aye Paul,” he greets, shoving the book into the bag roughly, “Bet they’re mouthing off in class about me. Word spreads quick here, I ‘spose, got to do with gravity, dunnit Geoffrey?”

His tone is lightly teasing but there’s some grit behind his words that makes Geoff visibly flinch, brow furrowing, “I’m sure the other students will take your story as a stark reminder of the severe consequences for carelessness-”

“I took a lot of care, actually,” John mutters. 

“-Or calculated dangerous schemes.”

Paul hops in to divert Geoff’s attention, “John and I are lab partners.”

“ _ Were _ ,” John corrects, turning his back to them and tossing his bag onto the bed. He bends over to open the drawer.

“Er, wait,” Paul steps forward, past Geoff, and holds out his music box. 

John glances at it, and back up to Paul, “What’s this?”

“A music box… I, uh, well… might be a bit daft, y’know. But I figured I ought t’ give you a little gift or summat. A reminder of… Of your time here.”

John’s face softens, slowly reaching out to take the box into his hands like it might shatter if he wasn’t careful.

“Don’t think I could forget,” John murmurs, pursing his lips and barely looking Paul in the eye, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Paul is dying to surge forward and grab John by the shoulders, shake the reality away and defy the rules just to kiss him once more. But he can barely move his arms from his sides, frozen and mentally scrambling all over the place. John looks up at him and smiles, small enough to miss if he wasn’t so attuned to every miniscule movement he makes. If he didn’t feel like he knew him so deeply from head to heels.

“Don’t want to make an outlaw out of you, running around with only  _ four  _ items. The  _ scandal  _ of it! Just imagine,” John chuckles and reaches into the drawer, producing a notebook, “Have a read of something that isn’t a textbook, won’t you? It’s good for you.”

Paul smiles, taking the gift in both hands, “Trying to corrupt me?”

“Already have,” John looks him up and down. Geoff clears his throat with a cough.

“Drop me a line when you get back, if you’d like,” John shrugs the bag over his shoulder, “Could always do with a mate.”

“I will,” Paul nods, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’ll be different... Not having you here.”

John opens his mouth to speak but Geoff interjects, “Yes, John has certainly made an impact in his time here.”

The other boy grimances, looking back to Paul and slowly extending his hand to shake. God, it feels so wrong that  _ this  _ is their goodbye. He can hardly believe it when the physical contact breaks away and he has to shuffle out to the hall. 

He startles when he realises that Geoff and John are also filing out behind him. 

“You’re leaving now?”

“Yes, he is,” Geoff seems to be irritated by the young pupil, marching past him and guiding John down towards the garage where he’ll be driven underground to the shipping area.  _ No, no, no. _

John walks with his shoulders slouched, hands in his pockets. Paul feels absolutely helpless. When the other boy glances over his shoulder to look at him he barely has time to lift his hand and wave before he’s turned back again. The two men disappear around the corner and Paul has to lean against the wall before he folds in on himself.

-

He sits at the back of the library, hidden behind a pile of textbooks with John’s notebook in his hands. Turning the cover over and seeing John’s name scrawled over the first page is a punch to the gut. The second page is inked with a little self portrait in his familiar style, and Paul feels sick. He shuts the book, he can’t handle this. He can’t sit still and accept this. 

Ivan slips into the seat next to him, looking morose and nervous, “Hey, Paul?”

“Yeah,” Paul swallows, “I’m alright, Ivan, you don’t have to worry.”

“No, I’m not, I’m just-,” Ivan sighs, “Yeah, alright, I’m worried. But I need you to listen to me, alright?”

“I’m listening,” Paul murmurs lowly, chin on his palm and fingers trailing over the textured cover of the notebook. 

“John’s got a mate down at the garage, he can take you to see John before he leaves, but you’ve got to go now, there’s no time left otherwise.”

“What?”

Ivan looks almost pained, scanning the library to make sure no one is eavesdropping, “His name is Pete, and he’s expecting you near the first lot of bins. Just try to blend in, if someone asks, you just have a message for Pete from Martin, he’s the only one that’d let us get away with it, alright?”

“How-”

“You have to leave now, alright?” Ivan turns to him, brow furrowed with worry, “Or you’ll miss your chance.”

“My chance?” Paul parrots quietly, heart racing.

“If there was something you needed to tell him… If you were waiting for the right moment, this will be it.”

He waits for the supervising instructor to turn their back to the doorway before he races out, John’s notebook in hand. 

-

He’s gnawing the flesh of his lower lip, back pressed to the wall where the industrial bins are lined up, making himself nearly invisible to the workers that are milling around the hanger. There are three large ships sat in the hanger, impossibly mountainous in size, lights blinking and steam rising from the floor around it. There’s a storm swelling in Paul’s chest, hard to breathe through, hard to think through. All his mind can center on is the fact that John is in one of those ships, awaiting bleak fate.  _ Christ, he feels sick.  _

“Paul?” a worker with oil stained coveralls approaches him as if he’s a feral animal. The worker is about his age, ruddy cheeks and platinum blond curls poking out in springs from underneath his helmet. 

“Pete, is it?” Paul nods, not game enough to move a muscle.

“Yeah,” he affirms, scratching at his collar and eyeing the scenery behind him with a quick glance before turning back to Paul, “I know where he is, I can take you, but we’ve got to be really careful. I can’t get caught up in this. Not when John’s given me this second chance.”

“What do you mean?” 

Pete’s frame sags, head dipping down, “I was one of the guys that’d bring in extra goods. Not all the time, just occasi- Anyway, John didn’t rat me out. He’s a good friend.”

“Yeah, he is,” Paul’s heart clatters behind his ribs.

“Come on, then,” Pete ushers him forward, “I can get you about five minutes with him and then we’ve got to dash out.”

“Five minutes?” Paul’s voice falters, and Pete suddenly throws a folded uniform identical to his at him and he has to quickly pull them over his clothes and follow his new ally as he strides towards the second ship’s entry point. The coveralls sit heavy and bulky on his figure, the clip of his shoes against the floor is blatantly different from the thuds of Pete’s work boots. The closer they get to the ship, the stronger the stench of fuel burns in his nostrils. He holds his breath, flinching at every loud noise, every hiss of machinery that bursts from somewhere close by. The two of them manage to slip inside the ship without much scrutiny. Pete greets another worker at the entrance cheerfully, Paul scuttling behind him like a nervous assistant, head bowed to the floor. 

“Elevators are too risky,” Pete murmurs to him as he pulls open a heavy door, revealing metal stairs that slant upwards. His lungs are aching, sweat dampening his brow as they trudge up the steps. Somehow, in all the panic, he worries about looking like a mess. It’s fucked up, he shakes the thought from his skull, navigating the incline with burning legs. The last time he had been inside one of these ships was his journey from earth to the moon, months of that first exciting buzz of a brand new experience, watching nebulas swirling outside the windows. It had been everything he had worked for, being able to look out at flaring stars and feel his heart swell with wonder and pride. 

They finally burst through a door into a crisp clean hallway, Pete taking a sharp turn and storming down the narrow hall and taking note of each numbered door. His heart is bleating in his ears, head spinning as he races after his guide. Five minutes with John. His last five minutes with John. His mind can’t expand further than that, getting caught in a loop of just the thought of he and John having mere minutes to share before oblivion. 

Pete halts suddenly, Paul almost colliding into him, “Here, he’s in here.” 

The gears in his mind stiffen. He blinks and turns to the plain off-white door. Pete doesn’t wait, leaning past him and swiping his keycard. The door sweeps open as his companion tells him something he doesn’t quite hear over the sound of his own rattled exhale. Over the sound of a gentle lullaby playing from the tinny speaker of a music box.

John is sitting up on the bed of his narrow cabin, the blue box cupped in his hands. When their eyes meet, Paul’s knees are just about to give way. He rushes over before he can comprehend what he’s doing, hearing the door shut behind him and catching John in his arms before he’s even taken a step after rising off the bed.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales into his shoulder, eyes shut tight as they hold each other.

“You’re here,” John murmurs, sounding shocked and baffled, hands running over Paul’s back as if to make sure this isn’t an illusion. 

“I couldn’t stand not saying goodbye properly,” he pulls back, John’s grip on his biceps holding him steady. This is his anchor, right here. 

“You’re here,” John repeats, smile curling his lip, “In a fucking disguise.”

Paul laughs, dipping his forehead forward to press to John’s, “No fake moustache, though.”

“You’ll get in trouble-”“I don’t care,” Paul shakes his head, “I really don’t, I don’t give a shit if I get in trouble. I just wanted to see you.”

Something pained flickers over John’s face, “You should care.”

Paul has to indulge, not restraining himself from cupping John’s jaw and angling his face to kiss him again. He isn’t wearing his glasses, his eyes are wet and his brow is creased in worry. Paul kisses him firm and desperate. 

“Hey? Listen to me, alright? Don’t admit to anything. Don’t tell them you knew about it, don’t tell them about the wine or the comics. Throw them out or hide them in the library. Don’t get caught. I don’t want to ruin your life.”

Paul can’t protest, he just closes his eyes and feels the warmth between their bodies and the cold of a lonely future ahead.

“I won’t say a thing,” he takes a deep breath, “I need to ask you...” 

John tilts his head, posture wilting to press closer to him.

“Yeah?” his slender digits rake through his hair, he wants to remember how it feels to have this boy adore him. He wants to know it so completely that he’ll never have to doubt it. He never wants this to fade away. 

“Will you…” his throat goes dry, the warm press of John’s palm to his cheek renders him brainless.

“Will I still love you tomorrow?” John hums. Paul's eyes give it all away, he can feel it. He can see the way John picks up on it and kisses him gently as if to soothe his doubt.

“Because,” Paul swallows hard, “I will.”

John inhales sharply, “You mean that? Don’t tell me that if you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” Paul nods and breathes out a hollow laugh, “I can’t ask you to wait-”

“I will,” John promises, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, “I want you with me, but I know how good you are. They all need you, and who am I to keep you all to myself?”

“You have to know that the mere fact that I  _ could _ … It means something, yeah? Nothing has ever come close to this.”

John nods, “Here, let me get my glasses so I can remember you in this getup, eh?”

They migrate to the bed, John sliding his glasses over his nose and looking at Paul, admiring and almost shy about it. The slight smile, the glittering eyes. They’re across from each other, practically nose to nose. 

“It mighn’t be so bad,” Paul struggles to sound believable, “I’ll ask the coordinator if I can send you mail, maybe he’ll say yes. It’ll be two years all up, but who knows, y’know. Maybe the ships will be faster by then. Maybe I’ll get bumped up to level five sooner.”

John chuckles, “You daft thing.”

He’s blushing, Paul observes, and they steep in silent admiration of each other. John’s hand smooths over his, the two of them smiling softly. There’s nothing more to say, the panic has receded into acceptance. 

There’s a soft knock at the door, Pete’s voice from the other side of the wall urging them to finish up, that it’s nearly time to go. 

He doesn’t miss the way John deflates just before he surges forward to kiss him again. Lovingly, deeply, slowly. 

“I’ll be there when you get back,” John whispers. Paul kisses him again and again.

“Yeah,” Paul closes his eyes, “I’d really like that.”

“Yeah,” John breathes. When they pry apart it’s as though time has cracked open and allowed them just one more still moment of peace. He commits John’s loving expression to memory and walks back to the door just as it sweeps open again. Pete reaches through and shakes John’s hand, swapping goodbyes. As they step through the door, John’s hand rests on Paul’s hip, one last loving squeeze and a chaste peck to his cheek that makes Paul blush and stumble over his words.

“Goodbye Paul,” he seems to glow, or maybe that’s just the blurry halo Paul’s misty eyes are tricking his mind with.

“Goodbye John,” he forces out with a physical effort. They watch each from each side of the doorway and absorb the heaviness of the moment as the door slides shut. 

[ **Ticket To The Moon** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPFwNCIsXBc&ab_channel=ELOVEVO)

There’s a small aquarium displayed in one of the labs that Paul visits every now and then. He never got to tell John about it, never thought to ask him if he had ever seen it. If he ever just sat himself on a stool in front of this strange little world with the light emitting from the box making the room blush a cool blue during the night and stare mindlessly at it. He watches the small fish loop around the various streams of plants that waver as the water ripples. The tiny creatures will nudge through the pebbles on the floor of the tank and Paul just watches them and tries to conjure what John would say. How his features would settle in the content calm of the moment. The two of them just being able to be settled together for as long as they wanted, watching how the coloured scales of each little fish shimmer in the light. Maybe he’d draw some silly comparison between them and these fish. Scooped up and placed in another world in an artificial construction made to look like a home. And Paul would point out that at least they knew their purpose, that the difference was awareness. And John might have smiled and said the fish were better off for it. And what Paul might not have told him was that he had drawn up that comparison years ago, and that the displacement was bone deep and cold and everything was just a little bit off from being the dream he had always hoped for, but then John came and it all felt so much better. 

Pristine room after pristine room, he walks the halls with his hands in his pockets, just thinking. The chasm that has opened in John’s absence is a gluttonous thing. It demands so much and is never satisfied by the hours of study and chit chat he tries to compensate with. He looks out of the window in his room and tries to calculate what John would be doing now. Two months have gone past, and in that time John would have gotten home and quarantined and been released. Beyond that, he doesn’t know.    
Martin urges him to balance his hours of study with the recommended hours of recreation and relaxation. He’s close enough, he figures. At first he had avoided the common room because people were approaching him with the corners of their mouths tugged downwards, whispering, “ _ So what happened with John? _ ” Rumours float about,  _ John was smuggling in drugs and cigarettes _ and  _ John mouthed off at the council and they sent him packing.  _ He’ll just shrug off their theories, glancing at Ivan who will usually be looking at him like he’s worried he’ll break. Geoff asks him if he knew anything about John’s ‘little operation’, and Paul has the spotless reputation to be able to deny it once and have that be the end of any speculation. 

He seeks out Pete in the dining hall during the employee lunch just to thank him again for letting them say goodbye, and the blond man just sighs and scratches the back of his head all shy like,  _ “It meant a lot to him, I think. He really liked you, lad _ .” His heart is weighed down by the words. Pete tells him that John would pass around sweets and books amongst the workers who were missing home, that he barely had much left for himself most times. Maybe that’s why he hardly ever saw anything. The small revelation gives him a strange sort of flurry of emotion. Like the buzz of a fish tank thrumming in his chest. He goes to bed that night and makes a subconscious decision to work harder. To pour everything he has into his work. 

The shadows that cradle his eyes don’t go unnoticed by his professors, who all take him aside and tell him to slow down. He’s not sure how he can fend off this pace he’s adopted, but he nods and smiles and says thank you just like he knows he should and retreats to his personal quarters to read through his books with his concentration marred. When he feels strong enough, he’ll flip through John’s notebook and admire the drawings and lines of poetry.

_ Why must we be alone? No place to call our own. _

_ All I have really been doing was waiting for love. _

_ All I have really been doing was waiting for you. _

_ - _

“You want to contact him?” Geoff angles his brow in a concerned furrowing.

“I appreciated his guidance when he was my lab partner and I’d rather like to see how he’s doing,” Paul explains, shyness cloaking over his tone. Geoff runs his hand through his thinning hair, leaning back in his desk chair. Paul stands in the center of the room like a teenager that has misbehaved and been sent to the principal’s office. 

“There are protocols in place, McCartney, you know that,” he tells him and Paul refrains from visibly wilting, “I can’t make exceptions for everyone.”

“Then perhaps I can swap my primary contact-”

“Your primary contact is your brother,” Geoff states it like an argument.

“Yes,” Paul blinks, guilt sitting heavy in his gut, “But I’m sure he would understand. I really did value John’s intellect and-”

“Your primary contact is supposed to be someone who isn’t connected to this program,” Geoff explains as if Paul hadn’t heard this spiel before, “We have had top psychologists design this system for the benefit of our students’ well being.”

“I understand, sir,” Paul purses his lips, “I apologise, I was just hoping-”

“How about you see Dr Roberts? You know you are entitled to more than just the bi-annual check up.”

“I know, but I don’t need-”

“I’ll arrange a session for you tomorrow myself,” Geoff begins to type on his computer, and before Paul can argue he is being ushered off by an assistant with a clipboard tucked under their arm. He feels the breeze of the door when it slams shut behind him. He’ll have to head down to student services and cancel that appointment later, he tells himself as he walks back to his room

-

Sometimes he catches himself looking across the dining hall for him, scanning for that familiar face in every room. It’s a habit he can’t shake. So he soaks up as much as he can from the small things, the little jokes written in his old notes. The comic books John had given him that were now tucked under one of the shelves in the library. He will sometimes find a quiet corner to sit down in and read them before the guilt sets in and he swaps them for his workbook. He has memories he can replay over and over, there’s an equal jolt of heartache and comfort in what he has left over. The notebook is becoming less painful to read, and he rations himself one page every few days to make it last. It’s the most logical way to go about it. 

_ I’m in love with a beautiful boy _

_Independent_ _ and beautiful _

_ So beautiful _

-

Another class passes by in a daze, he’s sitting next to a student that is brilliant and clever, but something is so empty in their interactions. It’s alright though, he doesn’t mind. 

“Say, Paul,” Martin pats Paul’s back with two gentle and unsure pats, “I have an idea.”

Paul isn’t sure what to expect when Martin leads him to his desk and starts to key things into his computer. He stands awkward and silent behind Martin’s chair as he types away. When he sees it, something brilliant and warm glows fuzzily in his chest. A chess board is displayed on the screen, a two dimensional rendering within an email addressed to John Lennon.

“This program won’t allow you to type words, you’ll only be able to play one move per message, and I can only allow one message per week, as I’m permitted to do as an instructor,” Geoff explains.

“I- Thank you, sir,” Paul gapes, feeling every small bulb of that blue light burning into his eyes as he stares at that checkerboard, “Will… Will he know it’s me?”

“I can put your name in the subject line like this,” Martin says, typing in ‘GAME WITH XAUL XCCARTNEY’, “I’ve obscured your name to keep us out of trouble, I’m sure you can understand.”

Paul nods, mechanical breathing in practice to prevent him from making a fool of himself in front of his most admired professor. Martin rises from his chair and steps aside, allowing Paul to sit down in front of that screen and marvel at the closest thing he has to being able to contact his friend. 

“Your move,” Martin hums. Paul smiles softly, dragging the mouse across the screen. His first move is the same for every game, and he wonders if John will recognise that. The thought makes his heart stir. Clicking ‘Send’ is just about the most thrilling experience he’s had in months. 

So they have a routine now. Once a week Paul will linger after class and chat with Martin about his work as he scrolls through his emails for John’s response, and Paul will sit at the desk and contemplate his next move. The first response from John had his heart leaping in his chest, bursting into a grand smile when he had seen that John had mirrored his first move too. There’s an intimacy somewhere threaded through the pixels of black and white. Each move is a piece of them, sent through the stars as a scrambled signal propelled by the urgency to reach each other. _ Check mate  _ is a bittersweet victory. The only thing better than winning is seeing the slate wiped clean and the board flipped. John has moved first and they start again. 

-

He graduates level four with multiple academic awards tacked on in shiny gold print under his name but he wonders if that achievement would have tasted sweeter had he had John to compete with in the first place. He looks around him and feels the emptiness where John should be celebrating with him. A new year comes and goes, Paul lounging on one of the couches in the common room with some sour non-alcoholic wine in a small cup in hand. The music they are playing is all old hits from their teenagehood on earth. The group of them are celebrating their achievements, the promise of freedom, the hope for the future. He feels the most connected he’s ever felt to his peers. Last year he would have retreated somewhere more private, almost being able to imagine the dizzy high from the fake wine and kissing someone as if he really felt something for them besides lust. This time he’s content just to sit and enjoy the atmosphere, watch the girls giggle as they dance and the boys try to keep up with them. He and Ivan share a look and tip their cups to the ceiling, wishing John a happy new year in silence.

_ Let’s take off alone _

_ A trip to Mars or Neptune _

_ Just to be with you, darling _

_ Is all I’ll ever need _

-

The level five students are officially starting to work on their final projects - proposals for the new room that has been built over the past year near the small fruit farm. The student with the most outstanding achievements under their belt at the end of the year will have their plans executed and the room will be named in their honour. A legacy to live on forever. Paul has always imagined that he’d leave some sort of mark here, that by the time he was off to Planet X to do great things and guide a whole generation through a new beginning he would have left something important enough to remain. Roger is working on his plans for an improved oxygen conversion center, Mary-Anne is planning a robotics lab specifically for advanced students to work in and Sam is designing a room with specific conditions that will enable optimal wheat growing capacity. Paul balances two ideas. The main effort being the very sensible expansion for the medical center, something he had thought about as far back as his first year here. And the second plan being based off of what John had said about music that time in the garage. An arts and music room. His proposal for it is too flowery at the moment, filled with prose about how primal and vital creativity is to mankind and how necessary it is to the psychological and cognitive development of human beings. It’s nothing he ever intends to seriously submit, more of an exercise in writing. Something that feels more like himself rather than a perfect student that filters every bit of information through the screening mesh of what is and isn’t important by numbers and graphs relating to chemicals and advanced physics. 

Chess games don’t go stale, but sometimes it’s unbearable to have John so far away. Memories fade and he has to cling to what he has. The ache comes in waves. It will just be a dullness that desaturates everything and a heightened awareness of what is absent - of what he can’t reach no matter how hard he works. 

-

Martin calls him to his desk after class, claiming to have feedback about his draft for the final project. 

“You’ve done a remarkable job, Paul, but your sketches of the layout of the room are very different from your proposal.”

“Oh,” Paul frowns, “I don’t-”

_ Oh shit,  _ he realises with a jolt of panic _ , I’ve accidentally submitted the music room diagrams.  _ His mind scrambles for an explanation and an apology but Martin just shakes his head and smiles.

“I must say, I’m more impressed by this proposal than I was for the medical centre expansion. Really powerful work, Paul. I just need to see the correct sketches first and then you’ll have the all clear for the final piece.”

_ Wait a minute- _

“Sir, I didn’t- I was supposed to submit-”

Martin interjects with a warm laugh, “Do you hear what I’m telling you, Paul?”

Paul clamps his mouth shut. The professor is smiling one of those rare smiles that show off his sharp teeth and makes him look like a jolly father rather than an acclaimed genius.

“I like it better, your points are stronger, more persuasive. You obviously care about this a great deal and it makes for a very compelling case, and certainly the most interesting draft I’ve received so far.”

“Oh,” Paul nods, mouth agape, shocked, “Thank you, sir.”

“Good work, Paul, I look forward to seeing the final proposal.”

He indulges himself that afternoon and turns to the last few pages of John’s notebook. More scratchy sketches of cartoon people swimming through nebulas and aliens speaking in riddles. More wistful poetry. And on the last page, just a single note jotted down.

_ Final project idea - Music room? (Ask Paul about it later) _

He grins, turning to look out the window. Somewhere out there is the love of his life. His other half. 

-

His proposal is selected by the council of professors the same day he graduates. It’s announced in the main hall, and all of his peers clap and cheer as he walks himself up to the stage. Martin shakes his hand, as does the director of the academy before he hands him a framed certificate. Someone takes his photograph, but he’s too dazed by the shock of everything to figure out where the flash came from. He can hardly believe it. It feels like a dream, head spinning and eyes unbelieving as he looks down to a slip of paper the director hands him. It’s a rendering of his last name carved into the stone of the new building.  _ The McCartney Centre of Creative Arts _ . For the first time since John left he feels a really burst of genuine joy beam from within himself. He swallows hard, eyes a little misty. 

“Sir?” he meekly approaches the director with his heart in his throat, “I need to ask a favour.”

The director arches a brow.

**[Hope For The Future](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=163_C5UVU-I&ab_channel=PaulMcCartneyVEVO)  
  
**

Nothing feels real when his class line up and board the ship. He has his duffel bag in his hands, feeling so strange as they all shuffle into the mouth of the ship. His cabin is smaller, somehow even less personal than his room on the moon. No window to look out to. He has to travel along the halls to find the floor to ceiling windows like he had when he first travelled.  _ Is this it? Is this really the end? Should I feel more? Should I feel less? Did I do enough?  _

How strange it had been to hand in all of his notes and essays and plans from the past few years into one of the admin offices and have nothing else left to do but file back to his room and pack his few belongings. He sat in his chair one last time, admired the view, and waited for the signal to chime through the speakers. 

He can’t pin down for certain what exactly is stirring inside of him, but when the ship finally launches and all the students gather around the windows to look out to the temporary home they are leaving behind he feels like bursting into mad tears.  _ He did it _ . A lifetime of financial security, a legacy to live on, a place secured on Planet X for him and his family. And John. John waiting for him back home. He achieved everything he set out to do and more and now he just has to wait and not go mad from a lack of stimulation as they all travel through the stars. It’ll be torture for three long and sleepless days, but there’s so much to look forward to, he can daydream about it until then - until the grand re-entrance into the only home he ever truly had. He and Ivan have one of the other students try and teach them the basics of vocal training. He tries singing out those lines of poetry John had written, and finds they sound sweeter when sung rather than plainly spoken. He grows closer to his classmates now that the pressure has lifted from them, he gets to know them, and learns about what they are all going to do when they get home. All those glittering plans of travel and marriage and children and further study. He delights in how bright their hope is, and furthermore in the hope he has for himself. 

Earth grows closer each day. He imagines himself diving into the crisp blue of the ocean, swimming with fierce drive towards his loved ones. And then, and only then, he would be able to revel in the cool calm water. He would feel weightless, his mind could clear of dread and doom and he could finally feel at ease. He could finally feel hope. It’s so close now. 

“Hey Ivan,” he says as they start to finish up a game of poker with some of the other students, “Do you remember what you told me, early on, about John? To be patient with him or something?” 

Ivan chuckles, scratching at his temple shyly, “I do, actually. I was worried that maybe his arrogance would irritate you.”

Paul laughs, “Is that right?”

“I think it was more… Well, you know, me worried that you two would just stay rivals instead of being good friends. I just saw a lot of potential there but I know that you didn’t really open up easily and neither does John, really. I thought maybe you’d never get past that barrier unless I told you to.”

“It was easy, actually,” Paul says, leaning back in his chair, “It had never been that easy before, in fact.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ivan nods, smiling, “I wonder… What do you think he’s doing right now?”

Paul’s gaze drifts to the ceiling, “Dreaming.”

-

The air is different, so different, to how he remembered it. His lungs balloon with it, feeling the gentle breeze rustle through his clothes as he walks along the garden path where the returning ceremony has been held. He is in his formal uniform, smiling as cameras flash and reporters shout questions at him and his class members as they enter the press conference room.

Quarantine had lasted a few weeks, all the students set up in a luxury hotel in New York City. He had been checked on by doctors and specialists around the clock, scanned and investigated like an extra-terrestrial being, and then sent out into the world with a bizarre feeling of displacement, but he has a plan. Like the rest of his peers, he will go home first. Hug his Dad and his brother for the first time in years and then he can figure out the rest. Ivan and most of the other students will return to the academy to settle into their teaching jobs, but Paul has some things he wants to do first. 

He’s used to waiting by now. He doesn’t mind sitting in the airport and waiting for his flight. He doesn’t get nervous at lift off. He doesn’t grow tense at the delays. He is patient and polite. He has the rest of life ahead of him, and he knows better than anyone how long time can stretch.

Within seconds of opening the creaky gate he hears the front door swing open and his brother’s footsteps bounding towards him, his Dad following him slowly. They both laugh hysterically, hugging each other tight with watery eyes and stuttered words. It’s surreal, hugging his Dad again, smelling the faint smoke in his clothes and that cologne that opens up a dam of memories from his childhood. Being hunched over the table, doing his homework, filling out application forms and drawing out maps of all the constellations. His Dad cries in front of him, so does Mike - who seems hardly recognisable but speaks like he would write in their emails. His father is so much older and greyer, much more tired looking, but there’s something so vibrant about him that is so familiar and comforting.

His childhood room is exactly how he left it. Posters of the planets still pinned into the walls, his collection of school books still on his desk. Everything is dusty and still. His Dad ushers him back into the sitting room, and Paul takes the moment to show him the papers that map out their future - their allowance from the government that will pay off the house and provide them all enough to pay taxes with for the next fifty years at least. And a promised place on Planet X for them and their partners and offspring.

-

“So what now?” Mike asks later that first week, after relatives have come and gone, marvelling at the boy from down the road who made something extraordinary of himself. After meals full of actual flavour and beers that tickle his mouth with foam and listening to old records in the living room. It still doesn’t feel real, but little by little he is starting to relax into this way of life. Normalcy. They are leaning against the brick wall of the house and looking out to the garden where the sun is setting. It’s winter, but there’s a warmth weighing down the air. But it’s alright, the grass is still greener than he had expected it to be. 

“There’s a few things I could do,” Paul shrugs his shoulders, nose wrinkling at the smoke rising from the end of Mike’s cigarette, “I’d quite like to study music in London, though, before I go back to the academy and teach. But mostly I want to travel around a bit first.”

“I’d say you’re the most well-travelled guy in town,” Mike chuckles and Paul smiles.

“But it’s not the same, is it?” he says, “I’ve missed this place a lot. I want to get to know it properly.”

“We’ve missed you too,” Mike gives his shoulder a squeeze. He takes a long drag and stamps out the cigarette underneath his boot, and Paul looks out to the horizon and thinks.

“Speaking of which, there’s someone I need to meet up with and I might need your help finding them. ” 

-

He’s trembling by the time he rounds the street corner and approaches the small flat. Through hours of calling nearly every friend Mike had ever had, they had finally been able to secure an address for John W. Lennon, scrawled by Paul into John’s old notebook. He had wanted it to be a surprise when he showed up at his door, imagining it to be all romantic, like a man returning home from war to his sweetheart. But what he hadn’t counted on was how horribly panicked those men could potentially be as they walked up to the door of the person they loved, with only hope in their hearts that the feelings remained as strong as they had been. Doubt and fear and a terrible desire to flee rattle through him, quiet footsteps trudging up the pavement towards the door. 

As he walks, he’s reminded of stepping on the moon for the first time. Not into the ship hanger, constructed by man - but the first time he suited up and stepped out of the base with two other classmates and three experienced supervisors. The strange weightlessness between each step, the stomach heaving thud with each weighted footstep that hit the ground. That impossible feeling encompassing him, hyper aware of how spectacular and important this moment was. How divine and rare such an experience this is and how incredible it was to feel every microsecond of it all. 

Time slows down the closer he gets. The bag slung over his shoulder thumps against his side. He had stupidly decided not to buy flowers, though it would have helped to have something to hold onto. His fingers twitch nervously as he reaches out to knock on the door. He hadn’t gone with flowers or chocolates because of the very likely possibility that John will open the door, regard him with mild surprise and invite him in for a tea as if it were just a friendly catch-up and then a casual goodbye - all romance and promises of love faded as he had gotten on with life. There was no use embarrassing himself. But, there was hope, clinging to the walls of his soul and making it impossible to keep the suffocating emotion swallowed down. 

The door opens, and John is there. Not in a blue polo and charcoal pants, but in a black t-shirt and faded jeans. The image is so striking, so different and familiar at once, that he can’t speak through it. 

“Paul,” John breathes, looking as shocked as Paul feels. 

Paul feels almost outside of his own body when John surges forward and their figures collide, just about to tumble into a flower bed before they catch themselves and steady their forms.  _ We’re a solar flare _ , Paul thinks distantly, mouth pressing to John’s and murmuring mindless words of affection. His chest is aching, like there are sobs trapped behind his ribs and all he can do to express all this overwhelming emotion is hold John tighter, breathe him in and tell him how much he’s missed him, over and over again. Their words are muddled with laughter and teary sniffles, occasionally pulling back to look at each other properly. John looks mostly the same, but his eyes are brighter than how Paul remembered. His hair is a little longer, his face a little thinner. Everything about him still makes Paul swoon. 

“Nearly jumped through the ceiling when I saw you,” John tells him, crossing over into the sitting room and sinking into the couch with his arms still around Paul’s waist, “Christ, I’ve missed you.”

“You have no idea,” Paul sighs into the crook of his neck, “You have no idea, John.”

“I didn’t think… I-” John swallows hard, “Thought you might’ve… That  _ we  _ might’ve…”

“Mm?” Paul takes his chin in between his fingers and presses a kiss to his lips.

John closes his eyes and leans into the touch, “You didn’t forget about me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Paul simpers, “Couldn’t forget.”

“It’s been so long, it’s felt like eons,” John smooths his hand over Paul’s knee.

“I’ve missed so much,” Paul ducks his head, pursing his lips, “You’ll have to tell me everything.”   
“Over time,” John promises, voice wavering, “But right now I just want to hold you.”

“Lovely,” Paul combs his fingers through John’s hair, running his thumb over his brow and down the sharp angle of his cheekbone. They talk, broken up by minutes of just kissing and touching each other, in awe of one another. 

“We can hitchhike,” Paul suggests later that evening, the two of them having spent most of the afternoon in bed and are now eating cornflakes sprinkled with sugar in front of the television playing at a low volume, “Five items in our bags is all we need.”

“Very funny,” John snorts, sitting his empty bowl on the coffee table (right next to a chess set) and shuffling closer to Paul.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Paul looks him up and down, smiling, “Horse and carriage?”

“Wouldn’t mind that,” John murmurs, pecking his lips, “I’d be just fine with some old motel, it hardly matters where we are.”

“How about a place in the country?” Paul tilts his head, pressing his forehead to his, “Somewhere near the sea, even. I want to swim, I want to sit in the grass and look at the stars and breathe in the air… with you.”

John smiles, bright as starlight. 

He’s saving the news for later, for when he and John are in bed again and tangled together and truly settled in their blissful reunion. The paper is in a folder in his bag - the front page of the official plans for the arts and music room with the title printed in bold lettering.

THE LENNON-MCCARTNEY CENTRE OF CREATIVE ARTS.

_We’re going to live on forever_ , Paul smiles into their kiss, _the future is ours to share and brighten._

**Author's Note:**

> Woah! Thanks for reading all that! A warm reminder that I'm on tumblr at thisbirdhadflownx. Again, thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day.


End file.
